


outside the gilded cage

by carrionkid



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Factor (Comics), X-Force (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, I'm playing fast and loose with canon, Mojo-related, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-05-28 19:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15056012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: this is literally just me playing around with worldbuilding for mojoworld. mojoworldbuilding, if you will.it's very grim and painful and i hate marvel for having such a bad timeline for star, please, just let him rest.anyway i'm very intrigued by that one line where he said he spent 2 years living in the shadows before joining with the cadre bc he would've been REALLY YOUNG at the start of those 2 years.title is from limelight by rush. theoretically updates every other tuesday. don't worry, i have a pretty good head start as it stands now--It is the fixing day after the season finale when Shatterstar decides to escape.Escape is a dangerous thought, but censorship does not extend to thought. No one will know what is being planned.





	1. airing period of the season finale

It is the fixing day after the season finale when Shatterstar decides to escape.

 

Escape is a dangerous thought, but censorship does not extend to _thought._ No one will know what is being planned.

 

The broadcast of the day before was close, _too_ close. Most season finales are close, that is the appeal, but it still makes the body’s insides twist in knots.

 

Shatterstar was victorious despite that closeness, but there is much to be repaired now. The extent of the injuries are unclear; every sensation blurs together into a constant roar of static. The body aches, tired and lethargic.

 

Feedings are calculated off of baseline vital stats. If this damage is too extensive, it will be a disadvantage, body needing more than is given. Those who are severely injured often begin to lose.

 

Shatterstar has seen others, half-healed and hollow. Without enough to eat, the body will eat itself. Those ones fall easily in the arena, but Shatterstar is no longer matched with such easy opponents.

 

It is just days before the fifteenth contract renegotiation.

 

It has only been one renegotiation since Shatterstar earned the stage-name. Stage-names are given to those with many views, many sponsors, an honor bestowed upon the best of the Arena Fighters. To be chosen for Audience identification is a sign of reputation, of skill.

 

Shatterstar must be fully healed by the time the renegotiation occurs. It is not safe to attend with any injury. Even with the security of being a primetime fighter, it is still possible to be marked for cancellation.

 

There is not much contact between models once airing begins, but Shatterstar has seen others go quietly missing, never returning from negotiations.

 

Shatterstar has been airing for more seasons than most of the other Gaveedra models, now approaching the third season. It is an honor, an achievement, especially for Shatterstar.

 

The body’s eye was damaged in an early broadcast, healing factor unable to repair it by the time the rest of the body was fixed. The healing factor has limits for reparations, ones which Shatterstar does not fully understand.

 

It is a comfort that the eye can still track movement.

 

Were the eye completely nonfunctional, it may have been severe enough to warrant cancellation. The body was allowed to continue airing, but it was assumed Shatterstar would be cancelled quickly anyway.

 

Continued survival and growing popularity among the Audience made the star mark necessary. It is far more noticeable on vidfeed, lets the Audience know of the body’s defect.

 

Fame and success are uncertain territories. Shatterstar has been racking up points ever since the first season popularity spike, in part from performance and from polls. It is only recently that Shatterstar has gained enough points to afford more exclusive privileges.

 

Privilege is accompanied by wariness. Others will know if Shatterstar uses the points and there is always a catch.

 

It is possible pride will have to be sacrificed in the name of cashing out points on a second serving at feeding. The body has already blacked out twice this day alone.

 

The body is in better condition now than it was upon leaving the arena. The night before, Shatterstar could barely move, does not remember coming back to the cell. The pain of moving far outweighed the pain of not eating; Shatterstar at least made it to feeding.

 

Now, Shatterstar spends the time lying on the ground, waiting for the body to repair. One of the body’s arms is dislocated, the other too broken to force it back into place.

It is uncomfortable to feel flesh reattaching, to feel bone shards being pushed out, but it is a good sign. It is cleaning day tomorrow and those who are visibly wounded become targets for upcoming broadcasts. It is a chance to see all the wounds, even the ones usually hidden by the uniform. It is a chance to learn weak spots in possible opponents.

 

Feedings are not as bad. There are too many distractions to draw attention, too many still repairing. Feedings are primarily a time to make note of who has not made it through the day. As the weaker models are cancelled, potential opponents only become more challenging.

 

Shatterstar thinks back to the performance of the season finale with concern. Survival is not the only importance, the fight must be visually interesting and engaging as well.

 

For the duration of the broadcast, there was a popularity poll running on one of the vidfeed screens. Shatterstar does not understand the symbols of communication used by those who are not broadcasted, but the meaning of the polls is clear. Those who are popular are more likely to be signed on to the next season, more likely to get sponsors and points.

 

It was a good season finale. No weapons, deathmatch.

 

Most broadcasts are not billed as deathmatches, but it is a rare day in which none of the Arena Fighters are cancelled.

 

This is the closest Shatterstar has come to being cancelled since the first season. That realization is concerning to Shatterstar, but it may increase marketability; coming so close to the edge only to pull back and come out on top raises the stakes and creates tension.

 

The final match was an easy fight until the opponent broke the body’s arm while struggling.

 

The injury made choking the opponent hard, a challenge that was doubled when the opponent dislocated the other arm. Shatterstar could not make the body grip the opponent well enough to slam its head against the ground until cancelled, was forced to bite throat from neck. It was easy; soft skin, carelessly exposed.

 

The opponent’s blood is still on Shatterstar’s face. The Audience had cheered at that moment, a good sign. Shatterstar looked up to the vidfeed screens, the body broadcasted a thousand times over with teeth bared and face smeared in blue.

 

The only time Shatterstar ever sees the body is when it is on vidfeed. The body on vidfeed moves at the same time as the body housing Shatterstar, but it is not the same. Shatterstar is not within the body on screen; it is empty, just a copy.

 

Thinking draws attention away from the ache of trying to breathe. Some ribs must have been broken during the broadcast. The body was thrown back onto the ground more than once.

 

With luck, the broken arm will be healed enough to use before the night’s feeding. Limited range of motion made feeding a challenge last night; the broken arm was completely unusable and the dislocated arm was only slightly better.

 

The body is becoming weak, becoming unpredictable. Even now it is starting to change. It is betraying Shatterstar, becoming clumsy and uncertain, not moving in the ways that are necessary. The third season is the season at which most cancellations happen; Shatterstar is beginning to understand why.

 

The decision to escape is an easy one to make. Shatterstar is tired of having bones broken, tired of skirting around cancellation.

 

It is unclear as to how exactly to escape; there are many guards stationed throughout the Arena and not many places that are not watched.

 

The Arena Proper is surrounded by high walls, all too smooth to climb and far too exposed. There is nothing at all in the cells, perfectly seamless walls of cold metal and one wall of forcefield.

 

It is impossible to pass through; contact is painful but not fatal. Shatterstar has seen others try.

 

Shatterstar has never been outside the Arena, does not know if there is anything outside at all. Even contract renegotiations are done in one of the auxiliary rooms within the Arena. It is unknown where exactly the Audience goes after broadcasts, but it must be somewhere. That somewhere sounds preferable to here.

 

Advertisers often say that Shatterstar is good at strategizing in the sponsor pitches. That is a statement that feels incorrect when faced with the challenge of escaping.

 

All the potential plans for escape likely have far too many risks for Shatterstar to take. It is an offense that justifies immediate cancellation. There is only one chance.

 

It is too dangerous to attempt escape during training, there are too many guards supervising. However, there is also no way to escape from the cells. Shatterstar will have to wait for whatever opportunity presents itself.

 

The body’s eyes unfocus, cast up to the grey of the ceiling. When there is nothing left to distract from the sensation of fixing, drifting helps to quiet it. The body is just static, the cell is just static.

* * *

The sound of the alarm signifying feeding time forces Shatterstar back into the body.

 

Sitting up, Shatterstar tests the broken arm. It turns without sending pain up into the shoulder. It bends reluctantly as Shatterstar guides it into forcing the dislocated arm back into place. That arm is tested next, now having full range of motion.

 

Standing is much harder. The body sways, vision clouded with black spots. Last night’s feeding was insufficient and Shatterstar will definitely have to cash out points on a second serving this night.

 

The forcefield is lowered, other models stepping out into the hallway. It is designed to push the models into a single-file line, Protectorate Guards in alcoves watching. The body’s movements are unsteady; Shatterstar tries to hold it with confidence, but the other models must notice.

 

The broken arm hangs limp at the body’s side; Shatterstar can feel the bone shards within it. That is always the worst part of fractures, worse than regrowing or reconnecting. Shatterstar was unable to pick them out with the dislocated arm, hopes none have been surrounded by fixed flesh.

 

There is only one way out of the cells. The hallways change depending on the destination; Shatterstar still has not learned the ways in which they change, just that they do. It will make escape confusing. All routes look the same yet lead to unknown places.

 

The line winds into the feeding area. Thin hallway finally widening at the dispensary stations. The models move quickly; not much time is given to eat and those who are slow do not get a full serving.

 

When there is an opening, Shatterstar approaches one of the dispensary stations, eyes meeting the retinal scanner. It makes a sharp, sustained noise, flashing red.

 

This happens often. It is not programmed for models with only one fully functional eye. That does not stop Shatterstar from tensing each time it happens. Even one day without the rights to feeding is enough to send most models down the course to cancellation.

 

The second attempt succeeds; the scanner gives off a chirp of confirmation.

 

“Model: Gaveedra. Unit: 7.”

 

It does not use the stage-name for any model. It does not know of ratings or of kill counts.

 

“Points,” Shatterstar says, there is no reason to attempt at being quiet, it will be public knowledge when it is recorded for stats, “Second serving.”

 

The scanner chirps again. This will cash out over half of Shatterstar’s points but that should become irrelevant soon enough. The slot below the scanner opens, giving access to a filled container.

 

Fights do not often break out at feeding, but Shatterstar moves close to the wall out of habit. Others do not usually notice portion sizes, but Shatterstar cannot afford to lose the second serving. After finding an open space, Shatterstar sits, back against the wall.

 

The broken arm rests on lap, steadying the container. It is filled with something congealed and grey, dense and carefully calculated to keep models in fighting condition. The other arm is used to eat, fingers curled to bring the food to mouth.  

 

Shatterstar knows the taste of blood, knows the taste of bile. This tastes of nothing. It is thick, not warm or cold.

 

Shatterstar scans the room without fully looking up. It does not look as if many of the returning cast have made it past the season finale. Shatterstar is quickly becoming more valuable; only a few primetime fighters remain. The empty slots will be filled soon enough.

 

Kartak 4 is gone, would probably have earned a stage-name at this renegotiation. The Xorae model known as Lightbreak is also gone. Shatterstar was often paired with Lightbreak; both moved with agility, were well suited for duels. A good amount of the Liskkyps run remain, as do the Satvor run.

 

There is a new set of models, ones with unknown designations, all clustered together. First season premiers are never smart, grouping together as if that will offer protection. Trying to maintain a group is never wise; it will be split up once brought into the cells.

 

The models are trained together in sets up until the beginning of airing time. It is strange to be among so many for so long and then be alone.

 

Shatterstar cleans the container with fingers, licking away the semi-solid paste. It coats the inside of the throat, resting strangely in the stomach, but it helps the body to heal. Already the body is repairing more efficiently, ache within the arm lessening. It is easier to stand by the time the alarm sounds again.

 

There is much not time spent in the feeding room. It would be a challenge to accomplish anything in so short of time, even if the cover of so many models would draw attention away from Shatterstar.  

 

On the way from the feeding room, Shatterstar notices that there are vents along the walls. They appear to be too small for most models to fit through, but it would be an acceptable cost to dislocate the body’s arms again.

 

The hallways are small with many guards watching. There is only one way in and out.

 

This is not an opportunity, it is a trap.

 

Shatterstar will have to find a better location, a _safer_ location.

* * *

On cleaning day, Shatterstar wakes to bone shards beside the body. Both arms are now fully functional. The broken one moves easily, stretching as Shatterstar wishes it to.

 

With the other arm dislocated for much of the healing process, there was the fear that the broken arm would set wrong. It is always tedious to re-break and reset a wound. That is why the other arm clicks when moving, has clicked for at least a season if not longer.

 

Shatterstar can use both arms equally well in combat, but it is never good to have a visible defect.

 

The fingers finally work well enough to undo the braids. Such delicate maneuvers make the wrists ache in strange ways. Shatterstar is still practicing the braiding, as often as is possible. It is a careful process, the one small set of movements allowed to Shatterstar.

 

The actions do not belong to Shatterstar, copied from the hair and makeup team.

 

Copying was an anomaly, unexpected by the Agents, but the action was not taken away.

 

None of the other Gaveedra models can copy, can _learn_ , like Shatterstar.

 

The braids are all loose and Shatterstar is working at picking dried blood from hair by the time the alarm for cleaning day goes off. The model across from Shatterstar is still injured, walking with a limp. Attention will not be on Shatterstar this day. Others will be too busy thinking of how best to re-break the model’s leg if paired with the wounded one.

 

The cleaning room is divided into two areas, cleaning and changing. In the changing area, Shatterstar strips out of the uniform. Each model is given a specific container for the old uniform.

 

Old uniforms are taken and new uniforms are given at the start of each broadcasting day. Always white, as that shows blood best.

 

The models have many different blood colors, all designed to show up on vidfeed. The opponents blood must stand out.

 

Shatterstar overheard a guard once, cautioning another model to be careful as the uniform is a collectible _._ There is no doubt that Shatterstar’s uniform from the season finale will be a collectible, stained blue and green and still mostly whole.

 

After depositing the uniform, the body joins the line to the cleaning area. It is small, allowing space for only a few at a time. The line moves quickly, short segments of time are allotted for each set. It is not long before Shatterstar has an opportunity to step into the station.

 

The water is cold enough that Shatterstar’s vision whites out, breath knocked from body. The sensation stops as quickly as it starts.

 

Body wipes hands across face with dedicated desperation, trying to ensure all the blood is gone. Shatterstar does not like to have blood remain on the body, is used to it anyway.

 

One guard gives a new uniform at exit of the cleaning station. Shatterstar pulls on the pants before returning to the place where the boots were left. The boots fasten tightly with clips, one of the few things that accurately fit to the body. The shirt is large and loose, only maneuverable when wearing arm bracers.

 

It is pointless to put on the shirt when the hair is still wet. Fabric slicked to skin will only make the body colder than it already is. Shatterstar cannot stop the shivering, wraps arms around stomach under the guise of holding the shirt. The hair is heavy when it is wet, takes almost the entire day to dry.

 

This cleaning day marks the ending of the season finale airing period. Contract renegotiations are the next day, completed before training gives a chance for further injury. It is unrealistic to think that Shatterstar will escape before the next day, but it is a thought that gives comfort.

* * *

 

Shatterstar was there, and then he was gone.

 

Ric’s not exactly worried, per se; if anything, he should be worried about who finds _Star._ He’s not a clingy boyfriend at all and teams have a tendency to split up when shit hits the fan. Which it did, about five minutes ago.

 

The job was a set-up and everyone’s gonna bitch at him for not vetting the client well enough but it’s hard to figure out if a client’s a front for an extremist organization if said extremist organization is almost entirely off the grid. Ric hadn’t even heard of them before today.

 

Somewhere, among all the fighting, Rictor picked up on a bit of the group’s ideology. Really, if they want people to listen, they should start with the elevator pitch before they start trying to kill you. One of them was pretty damned pissed about X-Factor working for the government, he got that much between dodging the quills she was throwing.

 

Ric isn’t too happy to be working for the government either. Since when have they ever cared about mutants? But he isn’t gonna be a terrorist about it. He ducks under the arm of another; smooth, plasticy skin that makes the guy look like a toy.

 

Hopefully Star isn’t dealing with the two-bit mutant brigade. He’s changed a lot since they were kids, but he still doesn’t seem to be good at holding back.


	2. contract renegotiations and training period

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so the updated posting schedule is every other tuesday simply because i'm writing this fic slower than some of my other ones.

The fifteenth renegotiation begins as is standard. The Agents check over the body’s copyright, update the vital stats, ensure the augmented information system is still functional. 

 

It is strange, attached to the body, moving with it like a ghost. Shatterstar does not have eyes to see it, only Premium Audience viewers do. But there have been advertisements on vidfeed, showing a long dead Arena Fighter with hovering panels of information. Advertisers list off the functions of the panels: vital stats, kill count, win count, sponsor list, flavor text.

 

The body has grown taller since last renegotiation. It moves in strange ways, has new deficits and issues for which Shatterstar must compensate. It is becoming harder to control in ways that are unfamiliar. 

 

Shatterstar hopes the gain in height will be enough to warrant recalculation of feedings; it is supposed to be exact but most nights the body aches.

 

Then, the Agents exit the room, leaving Shatterstar seated in wait of something. The last time the renegotiations continued on past the basics, Shatterstar earned the stage-name. 

 

Perhaps this will be another similar privilege acquired, perhaps it is punishment for some unseen disobedience. Sudden changes are rarely safe.

 

The body tenses more and more with each passing minute. Shatterstar is worried that this is the lead up to cancellation; the body is healed entirely but the concern is still present. The criteria for cancellation are unclear, never laid out for the Arena Fighters.

 

The door slides open, Agents re-entering before turning back towards it. The footsteps of Agents have a specific tone, but the one accompanying them stands out. It is a sound of metal on metal, one that makes the body recoil before Shatterstar forces it into upright inaction. 

 

It does not take long to find what is attached to that noise. Lord Mojo moves into the frame of the doorway, accompanied by one tall and skinny, the Major Domo. 

 

It is strange that the Master Programmer is here to see Shatterstar, the fifteenth contract renegotiation is not a notable one. All signs seem to suggest that the eighteenth and the twentieth renegotiations are the most important. Shatterstar has not heard of many contracts lasting over twenty renegotiations.

 

“So this is the Arena Fighter! The star Arena Fighter! The one bringing in all the ratings,” Lord Mojo speaks quickly, like the commentators for the broadcasts, “Wonderful wonderful ratings, all for me!”

 

“Yes, Mojo,” the Major Domo speaks far slower, like a broken vidfeed broadcast, “This is the entertainer we’ve been discussing.”

 

“Wonderful! How’s it going? You want a bigger dressing room? Want more screen time? A raise? Just as long as you don’t unionize, we’re golden!”

 

Shatterstar is uncertain as to what it means to ‘unionize’. It is not always easy to tell the difference between situations in which one must respond when spoken to and situations in which one must  _ not  _ respond when spoken to. This is clearly a time to stay silent.

 

“Sir,” the Major Domo interrupts, words drawn out, “The entertainment do not get dressing rooms, nor do they get salaries.”

 

“Ah, well, we still don’t want them to unionize,” Lord Mojo gives a sweeping gesture, turning towards Shatterstar, “Now, tell us, kid, what do you say about harder opponents? Upping the stakes a bit, after all, we have to draw in those ratings! That was a strong season finale, I have to admit. 75% of viewers said they’ve never seen an Arena Fighter win with two broken arms. And that finishing move?  Incredible! Everyone loves an underdog! You’re a star! A fan favorite! Don’t let it go to your head or you’ll lose it all! That’s always how it ends. You get too cocky and you just crash and burn.”

 

Shatterstar decides that if given the chance, it would be ideal to cancel Mojo.

 

“Now, you’re heading on to season three, but everyone knows everything just goes downhill by season six. Too much exposure, too much saturation, suddenly everyone knows about it and it just gets derivative. You know how it is, don’t you?” Mojo laughs, this is still not a safe point to respond, “Anyway, that’s why we have to up the stakes. We need those ratings up, up, up! So we’ll pit you against a couple opponents above your skill level, show off your skill, maybe pick up a few more sponsors. Your action figure stocks will  _ skyrocket!  _ There’s a new sculpt in production already!”

 

“Of course, your ratings and profits will all go to Mojo, but you will be given the equivalent in points,” the Major Domo adds.

 

“So, what do you say? We have a deal?”

 

Lord Mojo is looking at Shatterstar with some sort of expectation. The body reacts without thought, nodding as if on loop. 

 

“Excellent,” Lord Mojo says, extending a hand, “We’re in agreement, then!”

 

The body moves without guidance, shaking Lord Mojo’s hand mindlessly; Shatterstar is drifting, is panicking. 

 

Lord Mojo pulls back, turning to those around Shatterstar, “Domo, Agents, whip up a new contract! Make sure it’s airtight! I don’t want any other networks to try to scoop up our rising star! Especially not when it gets us such high ratings!”

 

Then, Lord Mojo leaves, still followed by the terrible metal on metal noise. Shatterstar is left standing, blank and hollow like so many of the others. It is hopefully not a permanent situation. Those without personality are cancelled, those with too much personality are also cancelled. It is a very careful balance.

 

The body is still frozen in place, it does not lash out against the sudden approach of the Agents. One holds a handheld scanner as the other grabs the body, lifting up arms, turning it around, looking for the contract. Shatterstar knows where the contract is, could point it out under any other circumstances, but right now the body under its own control. 

 

The scanner trills around the body’s inner arm. One Agent holds the body’s arm in place; the other moves out of the body’s periphery. Those around the body are talking, that is clear. 

 

Shatterstar knows more words than any other Arena Fighter, but that is a secret. Those words are not helpful now, everything fades into static. 

 

Shatterstar snaps back into the body, focus point of a sharp pain in the arm. The second Agent is holding a scalpel, cutting into the site of the contract. The body grabs the scalpel on reflex; the other Agent steps closer, body posed as a threat. Shatterstar forces the body’s hand open, letting go. 

 

“Worry not, Agents,” the Major Domo sounds even slower than before, voice almost distorted, “The entertainment can be temperamental. I’ve told Mojo to make some modifications, but he’s certain it adds to the appeal.”

 

Shatterstar forces the body still as the Agent pulls the old contract from underneath the skin. It stays still as the old contract is destroyed, as the new contract is transferred to a chip. After the transfer begins, the Major Domo leaves. The site of the old contract is already closed by the time the new contract is complete, leaving behind only dried blood. 

 

“This one broke its arm six times this season, probably gotta find a new site for the contract. Can’t have it getting damaged, can we?”

 

The second Agent nods in agreement with the first Agent, “I’ll check the stomach for a viable location.”

 

“Can’t do that, don’t you know its signature move?”

 

“Forgot about that,” the second Agent laughs, “I’ll check the legs.”

 

The Agent finds a suitable location on the body’s right thigh. Shatterstar tries to force the body into relaxing; the insertion of the contract will tear muscle and heal strangely when the body is tensed. The effort is only partially successful. Shatterstar is only halfway inhabiting, but still feels the contract inside of the body, feels it repairing around the metal chip.

 

“Get going,” the Agent shoves the body, “Got a while before the new season starts.”

* * *

Before the season starts, there is an airing period’s worth of time for training. It is not usually something that concerns Shatterstar, during all previous seasons there has been confidence in the body’s ability to act. Now that the body seems to be a traitor, Shatterstar feels this week is far more critical.

 

Being away from the swords for three days is uncomfortable. After each broadcast they are taken, not returned until training or a broadcast. The body is as much a weapon as the blades, but Shatterstar still feels on edge without them.

 

The guards are the only one with access to the armory, Shatterstar waits with the other models in the arena as the weapons are dispensed. Even when the arena is empty of viewers, the vidfeed still runs, showing only advertisements on loop. The repetition of ads helps to gauge the passage of time.

 

The guard passes the swords over from the other side of the armory wall, through a slot in the thick plastic. With the blades in hand, Shatterstar feels complete. Perhaps they are a part of the body, perhaps that is why their absence aches. They are coded to the body’s biochemistry, useful only to Shatterstar.

 

Shatterstar decides to attempt to bring the swords along. It would hurt to never hold them again.

 

There will come a time to practice sparring but for now the feeling of moving with the blades is electrifying. Even if the body does not cooperate, working through familiar motions gives a feeling of control. 

 

It is easy to let the body run through the movements; it gives space for Shatterstar to think, to listen.

 

By the time the feeding alarm rings out, the body aches in a way that is almost a comfort. The sensation buzzes in the muscles, not quite tension but a feeling of being pulled taut instead of coiled tight. 

 

It has been an entire airing period since Shatterstar has gone to feeding without any injury.

 

At feeding, it is impossible to tell if Shatterstar’s portion has been recalculated. Surely the added height must have warranted a recalculation. Shatterstar will be careful, will not let any harm befall the body even in training before the next season starts. 

 

It was not an easy season, the body has had much to repair. Shatterstar has managed to maintain the musculature but can feel ribs just underneath the skin. So much goes to repairing, but Shatterstar will be careful this time.

* * *

Midway through the training period, Shatterstar sees the body on a vidfeed. The Advertiser speaks of a special season premier, a special fight. There are symbols all around the body, a still from the vidfeed of the season finale.

 

It proves to be enough of a distraction that the sparring partner was given an opening to pin the body. This is ominous foreshadowing for the season premier. Shatterstar has not felt such concern over a broadcast since the first season. It is irritating, but it is dangerous to discount potential foreshadowing.

 

The sparring partner is grinning at Shatterstar, proud to have bested such a high ranking Arena Fighter. It is not fair, there are not usually distractions. The sparring partner is off guard, too busy with thoughts of power. 

 

Shatterstar flips the sparring partner with ease. Now the sparring partner is caught between legs, trapped against the ground. 

 

Shatterstar will not be bested for long. The body’s hands wrap around the sparring partner’s throat.

 

“ _ You _ ,” a guard calls out, “Stop that!”

 

Shatterstar would like to make sure the sparring partner will never smile that way again, tightens grip around the neck.

 

“Stop.  _ Now. _ ”

 

The body’s arms are bleeding now. The sparring partner struggles, must have sliced the skin with fingernails. 

 

Something is moving behind Shatterstar; the body feels it, turns slightly, teeth bared. The body is still smart enough to not harm the guards. 

 

“ **Stop,** ” the Agent has been called over to intervene, used only when an Arena Fighter must not be harmed.

 

The body is not always cooperative but most times it will  _ listen  _ to Shatterstar. Now it is on pause. Shatterstar tries to guide but finds nothing save for radio silence.

 

“Cancelling outside of broadcasts is not contract authorized, understood?”

 

Shatterstar cannot make the body nod, tries for the affirmation indicator. 

 

The noise is half formed, trapped in the body.

 

“ **Let go.** ”

 

Arms go slack.

 

“ **Stand up.** ”

 

Body stands.

 

The others are all watching. Shatterstar burns within the body. 

 

“ **Follow me.** ”

 

The body follows behind the Agent, pace synced, constant distance between.

 

“You’re lucky you’re in the primetime slot,” the Agent speaks once alone on the elevator platform with the body, “The guards should’ve just cancelled you. It’d save the trouble of all the paperwork that comes with using the Arbitration Clause.”

 

Shatterstar is still important, still valuable. Cancellation before the season premier is unlikely.

 

In the cell block, the Agent stops, “ **Get in your cell.** ”

 

The body moves, standing in the center of the small room. Shatterstar watches the forcefield go up, still unable to make the body move. The sound of the Agent’s footsteps grow quieter.

 

Shatterstar tries again. The body will not  _ respond. _

 

It will not listen. It is useless and traitorous and terrible. Something never asked for, never wanted. 

 

Shatterstar is uncertain how long the body has been standing when it begins to listen. It crumples to the ground, lost without Shatterstar to guide. Shatterstar moves the body until pressed to the wall. 

 

The sparring partner’s scratches have already healed, leaving only streaks of dried blood behind. Hand wraps around the other arm’s wrist, nails digging into flesh. Shatterstar curls over, bites down hard, tastes blood.

 

It is dangerous to use the healing factor so pointlessly, but the body is  _ listening. _

 

Shatterstar bites again, new place, new marks. The body is  _ still  _ listening.

 

The body has never been overridden before. Shatterstar is good, does as told, is not noticed except on broadcast.

 

The body is making noise, soft and whining. It is bad, has always been bad, will not listen, will not  _ work. _

 

No.

 

It was Shatterstar who would not stop.

 

It is Shatterstar’s fault.

 

The realization hurts more than the bite marks.

* * *

When the other cells open for the day’s training, the forcefield for Shatterstar’s cell does not go down. At first, Shatterstar is certain it must be a mistake but bringing that up is not allowed. The guards do not return, do not demand to know why Shatterstar has not left the cell at the assigned time.

 

It becomes clear that Shatterstar has lost the rights to training. It is retribution for the actions of the day before. It is not allowed to wound one of the others seriously while training, it is not allowed to  _ cancel  _ one of the others while training.

 

Shatterstar is unsure if the sparring partner was truly cancelled. An attempt was made, but whether it was successful is unclear. Shatterstar thinks that the retribution would be harsher if it was successful, but there is some leniency for primetime fighters this close to the season premier.

 

It was foolish to react like that, but the body, but Shatterstar, could not stop, did not  _ want  _ to stop. Now, guards will just be watching closer. The others will also be watching closer; if the  body has gone defective, the others will be trying to take the primetime slot once Shatterstar is cancelled.

 

Being watched is familiar, but those watching being so  _ close  _ to Shatterstar will make escape all the more difficult. It is safer to stay unassuming, unnoticed, to be small and unseen. Shatterstar knows better than to draw attention outside of the arena, that outburst was unexpected and unusual. 

 

Perhaps Mojo was right; Shatterstar is crashing and burning.

 

No.

 

It must be the pressure of the coming season premier.

 

Why was the body on the vidfeed?

 

What do the advertisers mean by a special fight?

 

It must have something to do with the new terms of the contract. Shatterstar hopes the premier will not be anything like the last season’s finale. The broadcast lasted for an entire day, all through lights out; no hopes of healing without rest, no weapons, each round fought until cancellation with no commercial breaks between.

 

Of course, every season calls for escalation, but Shatterstar doubts the body’s ability to survive something more taxing than the finale. This doubt is worsened by the lack of training. Shatterstar guides the body through whatever motions will work in the small cell. Familiarity is still a comfort, even without the swords to complete the action.

 

Shatterstar stays in motion until the others return before feeding time. The body aches from the effort, but perhaps it will be too tired to do anything more risky. If it were not the season premier, if Shatterstar was not in the primetime slot, it is likely the rights to feeding would be lost as well.

 

The body is already using the healing factor needlessly, mostly from wounds inflicted by Shatterstar. That is not being careful, but Shatterstar has not been making good decisions as of late. 

 

Shatterstar is supposed to guide the body, cannot even do that anymore. Maybe it would be easier to just leave the body to act as it sees fit. The body did not try to strangle the sparring partner until Shatterstar told it to.

 

The body can win easy fights without much guidance at all, but would be useless alone in a season premier. Shatterstar will have to try to be better, to guide it more carefully.

* * *

Ric knocks out the plasticy fucker pretty easy. He pulls him down, kneeing up at his forehead at the same time. The action leaves a little bit of a dent behind and Rictor tries not to think about that too much. Seriously injuring and/or killing people is not a habit he wants to develop. 

 

Quill girl is harder to deal with. She’s covered in them, like a fucking porcupine and it’s impossible to get close enough to her for hand to hand combat. Ric’s done everything he can to adapt to not having powers, but it never feels like it’s enough. He had to teach himself how to eat again after his hands permanently stopped shaking, for fuck’s sake.

 

He’s  _ got  _ a gun. He doesn’t like using it, though. Holding it felt something like control at first, but it just makes things worse. It’s a great fucking metaphor; these days, he’s empty and hollow and useless just like the barrel of a gun. Only works right if you’ve got a bullet in the chamber.

 

But this isn’t the time for succumbing to depression, so he pulls back. If something isn’t working, you have to reevaluate.

 

He’s not gonna go find someone to help him, that’ll just add insult to the injury that is his whole entire existence as of late.

 

It’d be different if Star was nearby. He helps and he  _ doesn’t  _ make a big deal out of it and Ric  _ doesn’t  _ have to suffer through the awkwardness of asking for help.

 

Ric’ll find him after he’s done with porcupine girl, hover around nearby.


	3. preparation for season premier

The day of the season premier, Shatterstar wakes with body coiled tight. It does not want to move, twisted and traitorous, knees held tight to chest. This has not happened since the first season, should not be happening now.

 

The body will move, if forced, by the time the alarm for changing goes off. Standing in line with the others, it becomes obvious that Shatterstar’s uniform is stained only with blood from the body, not  from any sparring partners. It is uncomfortable, others half watching from periphery. It is something close to weakness to be marked by the body’s blood alone.

 

After changing, the Arena Fighters are guided to the scheduling room. The various season’s models are directed into lines, each one leading up to an Agent. The contracts must be checked in order to finalize the broadcasting schedule.

 

The body keeps attempting to curl up again, fingernails digging into palm, barely able to breathe. The line moves slowly; there are many contracts to check. After reaching the Agent assigned to the third season models, Shatterstar does not meet the other’s eyes.

 

The Agent holds a scanner, moves it up along the body’s arm.

 

Shatterstar points to the spot on the body’s thigh, “Contract.”

 

“Oh,” the Agent scans the contract through the cloth of the uniform, “One of  _ those  _ ones. It’s not on ‘til after the fourth commercial break. Keep an eye on it, though.”

 

The guard standing near the Agent grips the body’s arm. Shatterstar could act now. It would not be a good idea, but it could happen. There is nowhere to go other than the elevator platforms that rise up to the Arena. So, Shatterstar lets the guard lead the body to one of the waiting cells. There is too much time until Shatterstar’s broadcast to justify not being locked up. 

 

There is no doubt that volatile has been added to the list of character traits on the augmented information system, both for audience knowledge and a warning to guards and Agents. Ratings will not be able to protect Shatterstar forever. Either escape must be successful or every action must be thought through carefully to stand out less.

 

After moving, the body does not want to be still. It buzzes with strange energy, not quite shaking, but movement lessens the feeling. Shatterstar stretches, will not let the body overexert itself. Shatterstar must be able to fight.

 

The first season performers have already left the waiting area. The first season is small this premier, less modelsets produced than usual. At least one set was faulty, all marked for cancellation. Shatterstar is lucky to be one of the few remaining Gaveedra models, the others have not held up well. By newer standards, the Gaveedra models would have been considered faulty.

 

The cast for each season grows ever smaller; it is unclear how this small of a first season will impact later seasons. The remaining models for the third season barely make up two starting modelsets. Other than Shatterstar, only Gaveedra 6 and 10 are still airing. With Kartak 4 now cancelled, there are none of the Kartak models remaining. A good number of the Satvor models remain, as do the Xorae  models. 

 

Shatterstar cancelled one of the Vendaari models. it is not easy to remember model numbers, but only three others remain. The Satvor models are efficient and precise, but the Vendaari models are  _ dangerous _ . They are relentless, will not let go unless forced, and extremely hard to cancel.

 

Shatterstar thought the Vendaari cancelled, was almost too caught up in the victory cry of the Audience to hear it moving. The model’s face was unrecognizable, line between flesh and blood blurred, and yet it still moved, kept moving until Shatterstar cleaved it in two. 

 

It is likely Shatterstar will be up against another Vendaari today. The contract has scheduled time slots with more challenging opponents for this season. If it is for the first event, Shatterstar should be able to cancel a Vendaari model; success is doubtful by the final event.

 

It would be ideal to face off against one of the Xorae models first, that run does not heal as quickly as the other third season runs. It is an easy warm up. Perhaps Shatterstar is no longer scheduled for act one fights, but the primetime slot usually allows for at least one act one fight in order to excite the Audience. 

 

There are so many different faces, different bodies, among the Audience. Each modelset has the same baseline; individual models only have one or two variations from the baseline. The Audience have many variations. It must be confusing, trying to differentiate between others when there are so many variances. 

 

On vidfeed during the broadcast, advertisers have listed some of Shatterstar’s sponsors. When there is a lull in the fight or a break between rounds, Shatterstar watches the Audience, wondering who may be on that list. The body is owned by so many; it carries the designations of each of them, designations unknown to Shatterstar.

 

The sponsor designations are not easy to match to physical appearances. Shatterstar knows what the Gaveedra models look like, what the Liskkyps models look like, but it is unclear what the sponsors may look like.

 

The seasons before Shatterstar’s season are not broadcasted in the waiting area. Each season’s events are slightly different, but strategizing is not allowed. Shatterstar is not even allowed to see the other season three models, even if it is easy to guess at which ones remain airing.

 

It is uncommon for two of the same model to be scheduled as opponents, unless the goal is to draw out the fight. Season premiers are often fast-paced; it is rare to deliberately draw out the events, especially for a primetime slot. 

 

Shatterstar has not cancelled another Gaveedra model since the mid-season finale of the second season. 

 

That event lasted three commercial breaks; the base skill level of each modelset is so similar that no one truly has the upper hand. Shatterstar was only successful by burning out the opponent’s healing factor.

 

Shatterstar is forced from thought when the alarm for the first commercial break sounds. The opening event of the day must be complete, the first season models filter back in. Most are grinning, teeth bared, wild look about the eyes. The first season starts with hair shorn short; Shatterstar’s hair almost reaches to the body’s waist.

 

There are less first season models than before; the remainders are flecked with blood. The colors of the new season are different than the other season’s, different and darker shades. Shatterstar’s season cast models with brighter blood, for blacklight fights. 

 

Some are cancelled, obviously, but not as many as would be cancelled in a deathmatch event. It makes sense; the season finale was a deathmatch and repetition does not gain ratings or sponsors.

 

That does nothing to help determine what the third season event is. There is usually an overarching theme, but each season’s events are different. At least it is likely that any cancellations will be incidental instead of required.

 

* * *

By the time the second commercial break airs, the body is no longer cooperating. Shatterstar spent as much time stretching as possible, but now the body sits, knees drawn up to chest.

 

Cancellation is reasonably unlikely this early on in the season; Shatterstar is a fan favorite with many sponsors who would be unhappy with a needless cancellation. That should guarantee safety until at least the mid-season finale.

 

And yet the body finds no comfort in that fact. 

 

It is needy and nervous, heart pounding in chest. 

 

Curled over until as small as is possible.

 

This is no way for a third season Arena Fighter to be acting. It is good that potential opponents cannot see Shatterstar; there are not many times where the body is not watched, but the eyes of the other performers always ache more. The Audience knows nothing of the way cowardice looks.

 

Shatterstar does not bother watching the first season models this time. It does not matter which ones remain, it has never mattered. 

 

None of this will ever matter. It is unending and all are forgotten shortly after being cancelled. Even primetime fighters are only remembered on vidfeed for an airing period.

 

Shatterstar does not want to be cancelled, does not want to be forgotten.

 

It is a fate that has always been carried, always been known. 

 

All broadcasts ultimately end.

 

The body curls tighter.

 

* * *

After the third commercial break, Shatterstar is taken from the cell. 

 

The body stands. It will act as is needed today; there is no room for question.

 

Shatterstar is led to the other room, is met in the space by an agent. Shatterstar’s ratings and popularity rarely feel like an honor except on broadcast days. In the center of the room is a stack of equipment. 

 

The guard stays watching, body stays standing. 

 

Shatterstar does not like this feeling, does not like the unpreparedness or concern. 

 

This should be familiar by now, but Shatterstar feels as if it is the first season again. 

 

Often the equipment helps to discern the content of the broadcast. The performers will have access to weapons this broadcast; if it is only hand to hand, shin-guards are not given. Shatterstar straps them on, pulling the fasteners tight, before moving to the bracers. 

 

Both the shin-guards and the bracers are metallic, heavy but not so heavy as to hinder movement. The smooth front panels are green, denoting blood color for Audience identification. They are new, fitted to the body’s changed dimensions. The previous ones were marked and dented, barely any color remaining.

 

The shoulder guard is different, now with three star-marks for the new season. 

 

“Get it to hair and makeup,” agent gestures towards the guard after Shatterstar is finished.

 

The body is met by the guard, arm gripped tight as it is led from the supply room. Hair and makeup is in the same space as the rest of the waiting area, tucked away in one of the offshoot rooms. 

 

All the high ranking performers have personal stylists, Shatterstar included. The stylists shaped a distinctive look after Shatterstar earned the right to stand out among the other Gaveedra models.

 

Shatterstar has stood out for the majority of the time spent airing, simply because of the star mark. The distinctive style is supposed to mean something different but it feels the same.

 

In the hair and makeup area, the guard pushes the body back into the single chair in the center of the room. For a short amount of time, the room is empty save for the body and the guard. Shatterstar is still watched, still not trusted, will not be left alone.

 

The silence stops with the sound of new footsteps; soft click of the stylist’s shoes. They do not seem particularly practical, but perhaps they do not need to be. Shatterstar hooks the body’s ankles, presses the legs together tight, tucks hands under thighs to stop movement.

 

The stylist has two sets of arms, one set entirely metallic; all hands work through the body’s hair. The body goes loose, pliable, without Shatterstar having to instruct. The stylists are not to be harmed; Shatterstar is already in trouble, has already broken the contract. 

 

“Fekt,” the stylist laughs, “Would it kill Mojo to budget in some hair care products for the performers?”

 

“That’s not my concern,” guard speaks, drawing body’s eyes towards the sound.

 

The stylist twists the body back to stare forward at the wall. Shatterstar has learned that it is best not to resist anything the stylist does.

 

“It’s so hard to work with its hair when it’s like this.”

 

The pressure of the stylist lets up, replaced by the sensation of water sprayed on the hair. The body tenses as the stylist works now with a brush, skin tingling in a way that makes Shatterstar want to shake the sensation away.

 

“I’ll do the signature braids, or maybe something fancy for the premier,” the stylist speaks without concern or expectation for a response, it is strange, “And I’ll see if I can get some volumizer to work some magic. If we had more time, I’d trim the split ends. It’s a shame, really... I saw some of its earlier seasons, used to have the curliest hair, I begged my Xedra to let me do my hair like it.”

 

If good, sometimes Shatterstar is allowed to braid the body’s hair. That will not be allowed this broadcast, not after the incident at training. Shatterstar lets the stylist tip the body’s head back, leaving it staring up at the lights of the ceiling. At least the hair is not entirely wet, just damp enough to feel heavy.

 

The stylist moves to the body’s bad side; the eye can only make out movement and outlines, no detail. The body loosens more, not allowed to move. Shatterstar does not like to allow others close to that side, but there is no option when it comes to stylists.

 

The stylist sections off part of the hair, comb dragging against scalp. The body does not react, even if the desire is present. Both sets of arms work in sync to do two braids, tighter and closer to the body’s head than preferred. They move back behind the ear before falling loose by the body’s shoulders. Stylist repeats the same process on the other side before stepping back.

 

“Hmm,” stylist taps fingers against the top of the body’s head, other hands resting on body’s shoulders, “It still looks so boring. The braids are signature, I know, but it just feels kind of  _ flat. _ ”

 

“It’s just going to get covered in blood anyway,” the guard finally speaks again, “It doesn’t matter much what you do with the hair.”

 

The stylist sighs, “I’ll get the volumizer… And some curl booster while I’m at it. Maybe I can do some small braids for the ponytail.”

 

The stylist steps away, leaving the body to finally twist into a more comfortable position. Shatterstar does not like to be loose, to be easily moved. It feels like being exposed, being vulnerable. It feels like  _ weakness _ .

 

The stylist returns, pulling the body until sitting up straight. This is not the way the body likes to be, soft spots unprotected. The stylist holds the body in place with one set of arms; Shatterstar waits for what the other set may be doing. 

 

There is an unfamiliar scent in the air and Shatterstar’s chest tightens. Shatterstar does not like unknowns in any situation. 

 

The stylist tangles hands in the body’s hair, working something strange and stiff into it. The stylist pulls hair tight, wrapped around fingers in the way opponents have tried to do, before letting go. The sensation sticks in the hair, but Shatterstar knows better than to try to rub it away.

 

The stylist pulls the hair back into a ponytail, tighter than Shatterstar would do. The body can loosen it later, but for now it must stay. After adjusting it, the stylist steps back.

 

“It’s hard to plan makeup for this one. There’s so many guidelines. You can’t distract from the star mark, but you have to do something, it’s high ranking so you have to show that off, and on and on.  There’s so many rules in the style guide that I barely have anything to work with.”

 

The chair turns around, forcing the body to face the stylist. It is rarely safe to look another in the eyes; even when it is, Shatterstar finds the feeling uncomfortable, static spreading across the skin. The body’s eyes stay cast down at the lap.

 

“It’s one of the Gaveedra models, right?”

 

The guard makes a noise of affirmation. Shatterstar could’ve confirmed that, if asked.

 

“Ah,” the stylist laughs, “That means green blood, I get to use the neon palette.”

 

The stylist tips the body’s head back, making it much more of a challenge to avoid eye contact. One metallic arm reaches for the makeup table, pulling it in closer. The other metallic hand holds the head in place, arched back.

 

The flesh holds the bad eye shut; body almost whines but Shatterstar stops the noise first. The stylist drags something across the eyelid. Breath catches in the body’s throat, stopping the potential for any more noise. The stylist moves to the other eye, leaving Shatterstar to only make out the movement around the body.

 

The body does not like to be touched, especially not in such a strange way. It is not done in a way intended to hurt, yet the body reacts as if it does. At the start of the second season, the body had bitten the stylist. 

 

It is not an action that has been repeated since. Shatterstar does not like to be restrained _. _

 

The stylist steps back, giving the body space for eyes to flutter open, stands with one set of hands on hip as the other twirls a small brush.

 

“Hmm, that probably won’t stand out on vidfeed unless we get some closeups… I could try to balance out that big star mark. I  _ told  _ the marketing department that they should’ve done the mark in blood color, but would they listen to me? No!”

 

The stylist picks up a small container of paint, not quite the shade of the body’s blood, and twists the cap off. Hands hold the body’s head still again and the stylist drags the brush down face. Shatterstar bites tongue between teeth, stopping the body from moving at the coldness of the paint.

 

The stylist is at an angle which makes it impossible to avoid meeting eyes. It does not seem to be a threat or an invitation coming from the stylist, but Shatterstar does not understand the way those who are not broadcasted interact.

 

By the end, Shatterstar feels three lines drawn down the face’s blank side.

 

* * *

Rahne ends up taking out the porcupine girl. Apparently she noticed that he was in trouble, which he’s halfway thankful for but it still stings to know that he needs this much help. The only reason he’s still out in the field is probably because everyone knows to keep an eye on him and no one wants to leave him home alone.

 

It’d be better if Star was watching his back. Star doesn’t protect him because he’s the weakest link, Star protects him because he doesn’t want Ric to die. Star isn’t great at protecting people for no reason, which fucks with team dynamics but a terrible, selfish part of Ric likes that he’s  _ special. _

 

Now that he doesn’t have anything left to do over with the two-bit mutant brigade, he might as well go find Star. Star’s probably mixed in at the worst of the fray because he likes to go where the fighting is. He always has, it’s second nature to him, even if Ric wishes it wasn’t.

 

Rictor ducks past Rahne and the quill girl, heading for a set of Madrox’s dupes to see if he knows where Star is. The more powerful mutants of the group headed after the bigger threats, which makes sense but it’s still a painful reminder that he’s just a baseline human now.


	4. season premier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm posting a bit early 'cos i gotta work tomorrow but boy. star's life just sucks, doesn't it.

During the fourth commercial break, Shatterstar is given the swords.

 

It is good to hold them, makes the body whole.

 

This is what was missing, what was wrong. 

 

The body unfolds, heart stills to baseline.

 

Shatterstar is scheduled for the next broadcast, does not have long to lean into wholeness. The guard leads the body to the elevator platform. There are many throughout the arena; it makes for an engaging entrance.

 

The warning tone sounds and Shatterstar makes the body stand resolute. Shoulders back, arms up, swords crossed in front of eyes. There is always an introduction before the event begins.

 

The elevator platform begins to rise; it is a slow movement, synced with the end of the commercial break. The Audience is already cheering, all voices blended together into static. When the platform is even with the Arena, Shatterstar steps off. 

 

The Audience is brought to a quiet hum as one of the Commentator speaks. Shatterstar knows clips of most speech-types of the Commentators, but never enough for the entire dialogue unless it is spoken in Standard.

 

_ <\--third season----returning champion----audience favorite----picked by Lord Mojo----very special event----fighter Gaveedra 7----Shatterstar!> _

 

The crowd roars again, swelling with sound. The body thrusts both swords in the air, crying out, voice lost in the static. On vidfeed, Shatterstar sees the body’s teeth bared.

 

Hush falls again, Shatterstar moves to a defensive stance. It is the opponent’s introduction. Shatterstar does not see the other platform, tightens grip on the swords. This is not a good sign.

 

_ <\--special opponent----unexpected return----brand new event----never before seen----Liskkyps 12----known as--> _

 

It is a mistake.

 

The Commentator is  _ wrong _ .

 

The designations are in Standard. 

 

_ Shatterstar  _ is not wrong,  _ knows  _ the designations in Standard.

 

Liskkyps 12 has been cancelled, was cancelled by Shatterstar.

 

Season finale, blood in mouth, flesh in mouth, spat on Arena floor, did not move.

 

Mistake, mistake, mistake, cannot be back.

 

Buzzer sounds.

 

Body turns.

 

Eyes catch on figure, Liskkyps 12. 

 

Not another Liskkyps, throat gone, moves hollow, moves empty.

 

Still fast, still dangerous. Blade catches body’s arm.

 

Blank eyes, dull eyes, does not blink.

 

Jaw hangs slack, rasping noise like breathing.

 

Body slashes back.

 

Does not want to be empty, does not want to be hollow.

 

Holds guide, holds Shatterstar.

 

Does not want to be alone.

 

Body turns, runs.

 

Empty one follows.

 

Trapped in walls, no way out.

 

Body turns back, slices at empty one.

 

Does not bleed, does not slow.

 

Trapped, trapped.

 

Body hits wall, tastes blood, shoves past empty one.

 

Does not fight, does not stop, runs, chest aching.

 

Empty one moves slow, follows body.

 

Nothing but walls. 

 

Empty one does not think, only acts.

 

Slashes across body’s back.

 

Body cries out, lost in crowd-sound, will not hit wall this time, jumps.

 

Breath knocked from body with impact.

 

When able to breathe again, thoughts clear somewhat.

 

Body hangs from swords, stuck in metal of wall. Below, empty one claws at wall, reaching up for body. Audience is hushed, crowd-sound quiet.

 

_ <\--Shatterstar----lost composure----pull it back----still win?> _

 

Shatterstar hears nails scraping against metal. Liskkyps 12 cannot climb, too smooth. Body hangs from wall, can climb. Opening.

 

Shatterstar guides body, wills it to listen. Pulls sword from wall, wound on back aches with action. Swings arm with enough force to stab into wall higher up. Shifts weight to higher sword, pulls out other, swings up to embed in wall again.

 

_ <\--What is it----Climbing?----can do that?--> _

 

Commentators whisper-speak over intercom. Body shakes, electricity in veins. Once high enough, feet can rest in gashes left by blades. Body moves quickly, now used to the action. Walls are high, Shatterstar knows as much, but body has not been stopped.

 

_ <\--stop it----too close----do something--> _

 

For the first time in memory, Audience makes no sound.

 

Body tosses swords over top, into the stands. Pulls body up and over.

 

_ <\--it’s in the Audience--> _

 

Shatterstar reaches for swords, holds them close. Looks at Audience members closer than ever before. One moves closer; body growls on reflex. Shatterstar stands, swords held in defensive stance. 

 

The one nearest to the body cries out, stepping back into another one. There is so much noise, much louder than crowd-sound is in Arena. So much movement, running and shoving and pushing. At the edge of the stands, Shatterstar sees guards. 

 

Turns, runs, blades held up. 

 

Shatterstar does not know the layout of the stands, weaves into the crowd. 

 

The Audience must not be harmed, Shatterstar knows that much. 

 

Those who are not broadcasted are never harmed.

 

The crowd guides Shatterstar towards a hallway; the body ducks down, pressed close to the wall. There is a vent slightly ahead, access raised slightly off the wall. Shatterstar moves along carefully,  below line of sight.

 

Shatterstar brings the hilt of the blade down against the metal. It bends slightly, finally breaking off once the action is repeated a few times more. Shatterstar slides the swords into the vent before climbing in afterwards. 

 

There is not much space, but Shatterstar does not want to dislocate an arm unless it is necessary. The body moves slowly, pulling forward a little bit at a time. The bracers and shin-guards bang against the metal, but it sounds as if the crowd is still moving outside the vent. No one has noticed that Shatterstar is gone. 

 

The vent widens out, blades clattering to the ground of a small space. Shatterstar climbs from the vent, quickly dropping to the floor before turning back to look at the access panel. The crowd still moves past, guards have not noticed yet. 

 

Shatterstar pulls back, pressed close to the wall. The body curls over, arms wrapped tight around waist, tipping forward until forehead is pressed to the dusty metal.

 

Shatterstar knows it is important to move, to find somewhere better hidden, but the body does not want to.

 

The bracers and shin-guards are loud; Shatterstar needs to be quiet. They may be helpful eventually, but that is an affordable risk to take. Shatterstar sits up, just enough to undo the bracers. The body’s hands will not steady. It is not easy work to remove them. Shatterstar moves to the shin-guards next. 

 

The swords are next to the body. It is a comfort to feel them near, to know they have not been lost. 

 

Shatterstar needs the body to listen still. It stands, still folded forward. One arm wraps around waist, the other holds both blades. 

 

Shatterstar is inside of the Arena walls. 

 

The light is dim, only seeping in through gaps between panels of metal. The body can see in darkness without issue. On one side of the room, an accessway opens up part way through a wall. 

 

Shatterstar throws the blades up to the accessway first, before running, as much as is possible in so small an area, and jumping. The body catches the edge, boots gaining traction on the wall. It is easy  to pull up into the accessway, a space bigger than the first vent.

 

The accessway continues on in almost entire darkness; the only light is an orange glow on the other side. Shatterstar feels for the blades, moving them along with great care to remain quiet. 

 

The roar of the crowd is muffled, but present. Already the Audience has returned to the stands for the slaughter-games. 

 

At the end of the accessway, Shatterstar drops down. There is a thin platform, bordered on either side by thick coils of wire. This area is warmer, sweat dripping down to the body’s eyelashes. Beneath the platform, there is light. Undoubtedly, it is also the source of the heat.

 

Shatterstar holds the swords close, flat side carefully resting against chest, and continues.

 

The warm area stretches on until reaching a ladder. Others have been here, will likely be here again. That is a concern to be dealt with later. For now, Shatterstar tucks the blades into the uniform’s belt. It is not meant to be a scabbard, but it will have to do.

 

The body’s arms hurt from climbing the wall earlier. Shatterstar is only just now inhabiting enough to truly feel it. While climbing, the crowd-sound swells. Shatterstar is under the stands, most likely. 

 

To the side of the ladder is another accessway, tall enough for one to walk through. Shatterstar steps across carefully, tests it with one foot before jumping across. There is more light here, more sound, coming from gaps between the seating levels. It will be a good place to stay, at least until there is more of a plan.

 

Shatterstar slowly removes the swords from the belt, setting them on the ground without a noise before allowing the body to drop. It curls over again, constant ache across its entirety. Eyes fluttering as vision blurs. Careful voiceless sobs. 

 

Shatterstar has  _ escaped. _

 

* * *

The body uncurls when there is no crowd-sound left. There is a gap of static between curling and uncurling, but Shatterstar is still safe. The season premier must be over; there is no movement in the stands and the only light is coming from within the walls. It is after lights out and the body has not yet been found. With luck, it is a good sign for the airing periods to come. 

 

Shatterstar hears movement, body tensing without thought. Heavy footsteps, loud against the metal of the stands. Those moving are not being careful, are alerting Shatterstar to their presence. Someone is looking for the body, guards most likely, without knowing the body hears well, thinks well, is  _ careful. _

 

The body stands, moving at an agonizing pace. It is important to stay quiet. Shatterstar restrains the body even while picking up the blades. The guards are moving closer, footsteps growing in volume with each passing moment. 

 

“I’ve got a lock on the contract.”

 

The voice is close to the body’s place under the stands. More movements converge on the voice; Shatterstar tenses, prepared to run if necessary.

 

“It’s close, but I’m not sure where.”

 

Another voice joins in, “Probably in the stands.”

 

The body does not breathe, heart pounding, fingers tightening around the hilts of the swords. The group moves closer, footsteps out of sync but moving together. The guards still just overhead.

 

“Should be under here,” another new voice; there are at least three looking for the body.

 

“Just cancel it already, we all want to go home and catch a couple reruns of the premier.”

 

Shatterstar looks up through the slots between the stands, eyes catching on one of the guard’s helmets. This one is kneeling, unprepared. All Arena Fighters know well enough to not allow another close. The body reacts without Shatterstar having to guide, stabbing up through the metal.

 

The guard cries out, sound wet with blood. Most performers in Shatterstar’s season do not make noises like these. Those types of Fighters rarely make it past the first season. Shatterstar pulls the blades free. Guard reaches through the slots, clawing out aimlessly for the body. The body backs against the inner wall before Shatterstar forces it to run. 

 

Shatterstar is not concerned with being quiet, own footsteps mixing in with the disjointed movements of the group. The body is faster, has more to lose than any of the guards. They match pace each time Shatterstar gains speed.

 

The body is not being careful, Shatterstar is not being careful; both operating on blind panic, should know better. The body almost falls down another ladder shaft, stopping just barely at the edge. Stays still long enough for the group to stop overhead. 

 

It is unlikely to have made it all the way around the Arena; it is the biggest place Shatterstar has ever seen. So, there must be ladder shafts set up around the entirety of it. The body could jump the gap, has jumped across distances like these many times, but the guards are trying to wear it down. 

 

The group is not talking anymore, not moving, waiting for a chance to strike. The quiet makes the body unsettled, static just beneath the skin, compelling it to move. Shatterstar tucks the blades into the belt without a sound and steps onto the ladder.

 

Climbing up further into the stands is unwise, will make it easier to be found again. Shatterstar is uncertain as to what is deeper within the Arena, what is underneath the stands. Shatterstar does not know much of the Arena. Outside of the stage and the cells and rooms beneath the stage, there is only the unknown.

 

It is only just today that the body has ever been in the stands. It is strange. The Audience members always look small from the stage, but all appeared to be about the size of the body or larger.

 

The temperature is rising again, uncomfortable and heavy, metal stinging hands as the body climbs farther down. Deeper, there seems to only be the mechanical. It would be preferable to find somewhere cooler to attempt to rest, but the heat would be a deterrent to any looking for the body. Rest is inevitable; the cut on the body’s back still feels raw and open.

 

Shatterstar steps off the ladder onto a platform coated in the orange glow of machinery. The body drops to knees, sluggish and slow in the heat of the room. With distance between the body and the guards, Shatterstar can unwind. The body was found with ease; the guards spoke of the contract, seemed to be tracking it. 

 

The contract has to come out. Shatterstar is uncertain of the consequences, of the fail-safe clauses, of what could go wrong, but it is being tracked. It must come out.

 

It is ever present, feeling of muscle wrapped around metal, healed strange. The contract does not belong within the body, but Shatterstar has never tried to remove it. Most of the time, Shatterstar has been good, does not like the pain that comes with being bad. Shatterstar has broken many rules today. 

 

It is unlikely that one of the Audience was hurt; Shatterstar is not certain of the Audience’s blood colors but the body is only marked with the black of guard-blood. That is a second offense which warrants no-questions-asked immediate cancellation. 

 

Guard-blood stains the body’s hands, dripped down from the blades and onto the hilts. Shatterstar would like to clean the blades, but the body’s hands will not move, shaking without purpose. It will be harder to clean if it dries, but the body does not seem to care about that.

 

The body is marked. Others will not see it, but the body is still marked. Shatterstar rubs the body’s hands against the uniform, trying to wipe the blackness away. The body is making the high, whining  noise again. Shatterstar needs it to move, needs to get the contract out.

 

The heat of the room makes the body sweat, leaving behind fingerprint stains of blood on the belt as fingers try to unclip it. The shaking is irritating, but the body has been listening so far. Shatterstar lets the belt drop behind the body, will collect it later when the body is listening better. Shatterstar wraps arms around body, pressing tight.

 

“Move,” words feel wrong in body’s mouth, “Must move. Can move?”

 

The body shifts carefully until resting on shins and knees, pulls the uniform pants down until the contract site is exposed. There will be no new uniforms given; Shatterstar must be careful to preserve this one. Fingers prod flesh until the solid spot is found. With one hand, Shatterstar takes a blade, other marks the contract site. 

 

Body closes eyes, hums with blade. 

 

Shatterstar knows what makes the power-hum, avoids it with great care. The body is already tired, already trying to repair. It will not do to exhaust it further. Watching carefully, Shatterstar drags the edge over skin, drops blade by side.

 

The wound is deep enough that vision goes spotty; fingers dig into the cut, slick and shaking without finding the contract.

 

The body whines, quieted by fingers moving to mouth without thought. It tastes of blood, but the body is silent. Other hand moves to work the cut open again. It has not repaired any notable amount. The contract is found this time, slipping just through fingers at the first attempt to remove it. 

 

Wipes hand against uniform, trying to dry it off. Tries again, fingers catching the metal chip. 

 

The blood on body’s hand is fresh, still wet, still warm. Drips down body’s leg from the cut in body’s flesh. Does not look like body’s blood. Wrong color. Too dark. Body is marked. Blood is marked.

 

Shatterstar shakes head, pushing thoughts away. Drops the contract to the platform, smashes it with the hilt of the blade before pulling the uniform pants back up. 

 

Blood soaks through the fabric; body is not repairing fast enough, needs rest. It is too hot to sleep in this room. Shatterstar guides the body to standing, clipping belt again. 

 

If needed, Shatterstar will tuck the blades in the belt. Otherwise, the body wants them close, hums with them while moving.

 

The cut aches, leaves the body limping slightly. Shatterstar must rest. There are no guaranteed feedings now; energy must be conserved.

 

Maybe Shatterstar should not have escaped. 

 

The body was fed, could sleep, could heal. 

 

Now Shatterstar must care for the body.

 

If left unfed, the body will devour itself to repair itself.

 

Slow process, most shameful of all cancellations outside the Arena.

 

Shatterstar has pride, but that means nothing in the face of uncertainty.

 

Shatterstar cannot return, cannot beg forgiveness. 

 

The body is marked and no amount of ratings or popularity would save it. 

 

* * *

The dupes can’t seem to agree on where Star ended up. When Rictor asks, they all point towards different hallways. He decides to follow the route that most of them are pointing at, but he’ll gladly accept a second opinion if he comes across anyone else on the way.

 

He comes across Terry first. She’s up against a guy who seems to be able to physically turn down her volume. He twists the air around her, making her sonic scream fade into more of a sonic whisper. Now’s probably not the best time to ask her much of anything.

 

Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t get involved. Yeah, he’s been a bit reckless lately and it’s one cup of self destructive tendencies mixed with a half cup of wanting to prove he’s still useful with a pinch of self hatred, but she’s still his  _ friend. _

 

Volume control hasn’t noticed him yet, or he just doesn’t care that Ric’s here. He’s got the element of surprise on his side, as well as both his fists. 

 

Ric keeps close to the wall. When he’s behind volume control, he taps the guy on his shoulder. Volume control turns around, just in time for Ric to uppercut him. He can feel the guy’s nose crack and he looks at Ric, eyes wide.

 

In a superpowered fight like this, most people aren’t expecting someone to just clock them.


	5. first day outside the arena

Shatterstar stays away from the stands; it is too risky after the last time. The contract is gone but the guards may still find the body again. The body is tired, wants to rest, but Shatterstar cannot find calmness, even when holding the blades. It is best to keep moving, keep thoughts quieted. 

 

Shatterstar has been through several spaces on the same level as the hot rooms. Most are dark, cold, filled with cords of wire. It is preferable to the warmth of the other rooms, even if there is no light. 

 

The body  _ can  _ see in darkness. However, within the walls, visibility is worse than usual; barely any light makes it into the areas unless near one of the hot rooms. Without reliable visuals, the body jumps at any sound. 

 

Shatterstar is glad none are around to see the body acting this way. Blackout and blacklight fights are not uncommon, there are at least two of each per season. It is one of the events that are an expected constant. Performers must quickly grow used to navigating in darkness.

 

Shatterstar spends the majority of the time humming. It is not wise to cover up noises that may be potential threats, but Shatterstar wants the body to jump less. It feels good, feels soft, to hum. 

 

Most times, Shatterstar is quiet. 

 

In the cells, Shatterstar tried to stay silent. Others made noise but Shatterstar did not want anything to be mistaken for cries. Sometimes the body made noise. Always quiet and close to the body. Always unwanted.

 

All models are taught some parts of Standard. Only basics, yes, no, the designation and model type. In the second season, Shatterstar was coached in some slogans. 

 

Replies were only allowed when something is clearly asked of a model; even then it is sometimes unclear if they are  _ truly  _ allowed.

 

Shatterstar stills now, stopped by sudden realization. The guards will never ask questions of Shatterstar again. The guards will never punish replies for questions not meant to be replied to again.

 

“Can talk now.”

 

Shatterstar waits, caught in a moment of silence between the movement of Arena mechanisms. Repetition helps in learning to anticipate them, but the body still reacts when the sound resumes. 

 

Other than the sound, there is nothing else. Nothing reacts to Shatterstar speaking. 

 

“Can talk now, was not stopped.”

 

Words feel strange in the body’s throat, strange like the ache in the wrist when Shatterstar braids the body’s hair. Perhaps, both must be practiced. Hopefully, there will be time to practice both.

 

The next time the mechanisms fall silent, the body moves again. The cut on the back and the cut on the leg still ache. Shatterstar should stop forcing movement, but without something to fill the space, the body grows restless.

 

Shatterstar is uncertain as to when feeding takes place. Knowing that it is after lights out is easy. The arena was dark save for muted vidfeed ads still playing, light filtering through in colorful flickers underneath the stands. Shatterstar trusted the alarms, but there are no alarms here. Now the only indicator is that the body aches, but that may also be the wounds. 

 

The body climbs up into another accessway, pausing at the end of the small space as eyes re-adjust. There is more light in this room, cooler and softer than the light in the hot rooms. It is choppy, unsteady, panels on the wall cleaved by movement. It streams in from something high up on the wall, cycling with the mechanism sound.

 

The added light makes the body relax slightly, eyes now able to see everything in the room reasonably well. Shatterstar drops down, landing carefully on the floor. It is coated with a thick layer of dust, kicked up into the air with the movement. The particles in the air catch light, falling back to their place at the body’s feet.

 

There is nowhere to hide within the space, but it seems as if the room is not often visited by others. The body sits, side pressed to the wall. Cold metal against an open wound is always unpleasant, otherwise the body would rest with back to wall.

 

Shatterstar undoes the hair. It falls, brushing against the cut in a way that makes the body recoil. Before dealing with the braids, Shatterstar combs fingers through the loose hair, catching on stiff patches of product. Desperation helps in picking the strands apart, but the sensation remains.

 

Shatterstar whines, worrying at the hair on loop until fingers run through it smoothly. The braids are easier to undo, not ruined with product. There will never be product or make-up put on the body ever again.

 

“Can talk now,” Shatterstar repeats.

 

Fingers drum against knee, noise of consideration growing in throat. Many words are known, many have been practiced. It has always been silent, secret.

 

“ _ Premiering next week, new from Mojo Studios, Outdoor Outwit, _ ” Shatterstar copies the advertiser-speak.

 

Shatterstar is good at copying, at remembering. It is unclear if the same is true of constructing.

 

Fingers tangle in hair, voice drops to whisper-speak, “Shatterstar.”

 

The last time Shatterstar was allowed to speak the stage name was during the fourteenth contract renegotiation. Other times called only for designation and unit number.

 

Body speaks with teeth bared, louder now, “Shatterstar  _ only.” _

 

The body makes a staggered noise, not quite clicking. It is one made most often when a match turns in Shatterstar’s favor. Internal warmth builds in the chest, settling strangely in the body’s face. 

 

“Escaped,” Shatterstar makes the choppy noise again, “Not cancelled. Guards tried, failed.”

 

The body curls, arms wrapped around stomach. Now still, ache creeps slowly into muscles. Shatterstar will rest, will heal. Then something must be figured out. Without food, without water, the body will not last.

 

* * *

The cuts are healed when Shatterstar wakes. Shatterstar wakes slowly, leans back against the wall. The room is lighter than before, almost back to daylight visibility. It must be lights on now, but Shatterstar is uncertain how far into lights on it is.

 

In the cells, guards would come at the start of lights on and check the models. Ones cancelled in the night would be taken, all still airing would be woken. Now, the body wakes because it wants to. 

 

The newness is not easy to enjoy; the body feels hollow, inside of the stomach raw. Shatterstar did not consider the challenges of finding food after escaping. Situations in which there are so many unknowns are unfamiliar. The Arena was scheduled meticulously; the most unknowns encountered were during the broadcasts.

 

The body stands; hands shaking, feet unsteady. Shatterstar will have to be careful today. The body is not used to not being fed; it must be guided gently. Shatterstar must find something to eat, somewhere. It may be possible to get into the feeding room, but Shatterstar is uncertain as to where it is located within the Arena. Even then, the guards may be waiting there to trap the body.

 

The Audience must be fed somewhere, somewhere separate from the performers. Guards likely would not be looking for the body there. It is not yet safe to go up to the stands again, but they seem best to regain bearings and to decide on where to move next. Shatterstar would like to learn the layout better, but it is not easy to focus on anything other than the empty feeling of the body.

 

The idea of going back up the way Shatterstar came from makes the body uneasy, heart skipping; the concern is likely with good reason. Across the room, there is another accessway. The body feels far away, legs buzzing with static while trying to step, and Shatterstar is briefly concerned that it will not be able to pull up into the accessway.

 

It is accomplished much slower than the body would usually be when climbing. The action aches in the ribs, line of sight framed by black. Shatterstar curls in the accessway, body held tight, back pressed against wall. 

 

Shatterstar should have stayed in the Arena. Should have been cancelled during the broadcast, it is a more fitting place than a cage.

 

Vision distorts even more, blurred by something new, pooling at the corners of the eyes, tracking down the face. Soft noise builds at the high place in the back of the throat. The body knows the actions, carries them out without any need for Shatterstar. Perhaps it is the only one that can.

 

Shatterstar is alone, has been since airing began. It was standard, but it still feels empty, quiet, to be alone. The body misses great gaps of memory, static between training and broadcasts and cells and fixing, but it clings tightly to the days before. 

 

The modelset lived in one room, trained in one room. Shatterstar remembers sleeping together, warm under the weight of the others. There is no memory of the contact ever being done with the intent to hurt.

 

Shatterstar did not know many words then, only the ones given by guards or Agents. The models communicated with sounds; secret, purposeless for anything other than connection. Shatterstar does not have many of those sounds left, holds them close.

 

Now, the noises the body remembers are the threats, the warnings, clawing and angry. The humming is softer, but the power-hum still makes it one of the danger indicators.

 

Shatterstar did not start taking words until the modelset was split up into cells. It is not easy to be reminded of how aloneness hurt, of how the body cried when first trying to sleep alone, of the coldness and the stillness and the space where others once were.

 

Maybe, if the set was kept together, Shatterstar would not have tried to escape. Taking words was the first movement in the course of events leading up to this, done to fill the emptiness left by the others.

 

There are so few of the others remaining, all caged. Shatterstar does not remember how to differentiate between the other models of the set, does not want to be alone anymore.

 

The body only unwinds once vision is clear. Thoughts will not clear to match, but that must be accounted for. Too much time spent planning movements ahead creates an opening for attack. Shatterstar must only think a few actions ahead, must not get stuck in possibilities. Nothing else will be considered until the body has been fed.

 

Shatterstar drops from the accessway, leaning back against the wall after both feet are on the ground. It hurts to move slowly, but the swords hum against the skin, making it tolerable.

 

Now that the body is not running, it has time to take in the surroundings. Below feet are metal walkways with slats between them, looking down to machinery below. Watching closely, it is possible to see it is moving. The sounds of the Arena are regular, cyclical; it seems as if the mechanisms are as well. It looks like the Arena is breathing.

 

* * *

Shatterstar is not certain how far the body has moved when it picks up on the sound of something quiet, unfamiliar. It is something like a hiss, repetitive and definite, barely distinguishable when the mechanism sounds are at the loudest part of the loop.

 

During a lull in the loop, Shatterstar moves towards the newest noise. It is too exact to be something flesh. It is unknown if there is anything flesh within the walls other than the body. There are pipes and wires all throughout this level, but none of the others encountered seem worth investigating. 

 

Now, one appears to be dripping. The liquid hits the platform, bubbling up on contact. The body reaches out for it without thinking, droplets hitting against the hand. It does not hurt, does not sting the skin; it pools clear in the center of the palm.

 

The body licks it away. It does not taste  _ wrong.  _ The disappears into the walls to either side of Shatterstar, but the point at which it is dripping looks like a weak spot, surface stained darker than the  rest. 

 

Shatterstar brings the hilt of the blade down hard against the point. The point widens into a crack, more water spilling out to the ground. Shatterstar drops the blade, body cupping hands to catch the water. It runs down the arms, down the neck, not quite cold. The body repeats the action, over and over until the shirt is damp and the body is panting.

 

It helps, headache lessening, thoughts becoming easier.

 

Shatterstar must be able to find this place again. There is no guarantee water will be found anywhere else in the Arena. There is a smaller knife sheathed on the belt. It is not preferred, does not feel right in the same way as the swords, but it will work. Shatterstar draws it, tests the weight while thinking.

 

Shatterstar grips the knife, dragging the point along the metal wall. It is strange to make a  _ mark,  _ to cut with care and effort. Most times, the intention is to disable the other. The hands shake the entire time, the lines are not straight in the way they are on vidfeed. 

 

Body steps back, star mark carved into the wall. If this place is found again, it will be remembered. 

 

“Shatterstar’s mark,” speaks with teeth bared, “ _ Belongs  _ to Shatterstar.”

 

This was a good find, but there is still the problem of finding food. 

 

Now, the body moves better, sees better, thinks better. The body wants to go back to the stands, likes the light and the sound of others and the air that is not thick. Most of what Shatterstar knows of the Arena layout is underneath; it is the most likely location of any food source. 

 

At the next ladder, Shatterstar climbs farther down. The body’s arms shake, holding the rungs with unsteady uncertainty. It could be from hunger or from something half remembered, something like fear. Shatterstar does not feel often, feels fear even less. 

 

The air is even heavier farther down, machine-sound growing. The body does not jump at the sound. Perhaps it cannot. The air rests tightly in the lungs, but Shatterstar cannot work back up the ladder. The body is moving alone.

 

The body jumps once reaching the next platform. The ladders lead deeper but Shatterstar cannot guide the body correctly when thinking of what could be down in the lower levels. Again, it is getting dark enough to interfere with the body’s night vision. When it is dark, it is harder to notice the blurred, darkened parts of the line of sight. 

 

It is best to keep the blades in the belt, one hand pressed to the wall as feet step forward carefully. At least in this part of the Arena, the ground is solid, not slotted walkways which allow a look at what is farther down. The walls are not smooth, nor are they covered in wires like the walls above.

 

Shatterstar halts the body after coming across the first light of the level. The body hangs back in darkness, hands curling around the blade hilts on reflex. Perfect strips of light cast against the floor, uninterrupted by any shadows of movement. It is as good a place as any to start. The body is light headed, sharp spots cutting into vision. If it stops moving, it may never start again, but Shatterstar  kneels in the light.

 

It is coming from a vent, low enough to the ground that the body must fold forward to see in. Shatterstar peers in, head tilted to the side; it is unclear what is being sought but maybe seeing something familiar will help. Shatterstar is usually better at thinking, at planning, than this.

 

Mind is moving slow, world is moving slow. It hurts, worse than a wound. Shatterstar wants to scream, to pull at the hair, claw at the skin, bite somewhere soft until it hurts different, hurts louder. Maybe this is the body breaking down.

 

It takes a moment to place the room. Eyes stare in without seeing as Shatterstar tries to still thoughts. Injuring the body now is dangerous, head is clear enough to know that. It is one of the cell blocks, maybe Shatterstar’s, but all cell blocks look the same.

 

Body twists enough to see into the cells. On one side, all the models are the same, designation unknown. It is likely this is one of the first season modelsets. Half of a noise trails off in the throat. It is unclear if the others are  _ like  _ Shatterstar, there was never any chance or any way to ask.

 

“Fekt,” a guard steps from one side of the cell.

 

The body tenses at the word, breath held tight in chest. 

 

“I’ve got eyes on it,” the guard steps closer, “Yes, the runaway one, it’s looking right at me from the vents.”

 

The body stands too quickly, vision cuts out, falling back into the wall. The noise is loud, sharp metal on metal from the swords drawing more attention. The body is not moving  _ right,  _ hands curling to fists and uncurling, reaching for something Shatterstar can’t find. 

 

The guard stands by the vent, eyes meeting the body’s. 

 

The body  _ must  _ move, must not be caught. 

 

Shatterstar cannot make it move.

 

The ladder is close, close enough to run to. 

 

The guard pounds against the vent, making the body jump. It is enough to snap it out of being stuck, being frozen. Shatterstar runs, finally able to move.

 

* * *

“Thanks, Ric,” Terry’s voice still sounds a bit quieter than usual, but she can definitely find a way to get volume control to set her back to normal, “That’s two I owe you now.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, it’s easier to say that than it is to admit that he likes feeling useful, “That’s what friends are for.”

 

When it really comes down to it, they’re probably even in the life-saving department. But Ric’s not gonna admit that unless he has to.

 

“Do you know where Star is? The dupes aren’t helpful at all,” he doesn’t want to sound like he’s worried, because he’s not.

 

Well, maybe he is a  _ bit  _ worried.

 

Terry considers for a second, lips pursed, “Last I saw him, he was runnin’ after the ones in charge of this whole operation.”

 

“Any idea where they went?”

 

“Well, the information the “client” wanted us to find was supposed to be down in the basement,”  Terry shrugs, “So I’m guessin’ whatever nefarious scheme they’re up to has something to do with the basement.”

 

Ric nods, “Basement, got it, thanks.”

 

He’s halfway down the hallway when he calls back, “Everything good here?”

 

Terry grins at him, holding volume control by the scruff of his neck, “Think I got it under control now.”


	6. second night outside the arena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm posting a bit early bc i've got class tomorrow.
> 
> oh man. ohhhhh man. i apologize in advance for this chapter. i got way too into my horror element. things are gonna get (slightly) better from here on out

It is harder to climb up. Climbing down was much easier, but now the body must stop after several rungs to rest. 

 

It is a bad choice, but Shatterstar is going to the stands again. It does not matter anymore, someone is already looking, will always be looking. Even with the contract out, the guards are still after the body. Shatterstar will be doomed to a life of running.

 

It is a slow process, but Shatterstar continues anyway. It is supposed to be fixing day and yet the Audience is still here, loud enough to be heard before even reaching the level of the stands. Fixing day is always the day after the broadcast, that is known, is constant, but the Audience does not have anything to fix. The broadcasts must continue, even on fixing day; the realization is strange, tight staticy feeling inside.

 

The air thins the higher the body gets, mind clearing slightly now that breathing is easier. Shatterstar moves with great care; the body is unsteady and there is much length to fall. After getting to the level, the body lies back, drawing in breaths deep and desperate enough to make hands shake and vision spotted.

 

The body will not stand. Shatterstar wants to keep moving, does not know what will happen if the body stops moving now. This feeling outranks anything from the arena, anything from before. There is no cut, no break, no blood or bruise, but it is a consuming sensation.

 

Shatterstar can barely feel the body, something out of reach. Chest rises and falls with the crowd-sound, settling into something slower than the body’s pace before. There is an ache just behind the eyes, hot tears blurring vision, tracking down the face. Occasionally, the breath stutters, panicking with Shatterstar whenever thoughts drift to something other than inhaling and exhaling.

 

The body acts without Shatterstar often, but actions like this are not typical. Shatterstar is trying to take control back, but it is not easy. The body is much responsibility, hurts too much even without any visible wounds. Shatterstar wraps arms around waist, staticy feeling in hands while pressing them tight against sides.

 

It is not clear if the body or Shatterstar likes the soft noises, perhaps it is both, but they form easily on the tongue. It is not as easy to make them lying down as it is standing or sitting; they do not quite make it out of the mouth, quiet sounds pooling at the back of the throat.

 

If the body, if Shatterstar, is sitting, it will be easier to make the noises. Shatterstar unwraps arms from waist, pressing palms against the floor. The static feeling is now mostly concentrated in fingertips; Shatterstar pushes the body up, sliding back until it is sitting against the wall. 

 

Shatterstar is not humming. This noise is drawn out and gentle, tongue pressed to the roof of mouth. It is not easy to remember where it came from, just that it  _ is.  _ It fades into the background noise of the crowd, half formed and soft against the cheering. It feels good, eyes closed and wrapped in the roar of the Audience, rattling in the body’s teeth.

 

After some time, the body stands. The crowd-sound still echoes in the body’s chest, buzzing against the ribcage, making it feel less empty. Shatterstar steps into the space beneath the stands. It is wider than the entrance from the ladder, sloping slightly. The body stumbles now that it is not standing on flat ground.

 

Shatterstar has not awarded the others much thought, but now it occurs that this must be what happens to the ones that are not fed after losing fights. This is why those opponents are cancelled with such ease. There is a good chance Shatterstar will have to fight again; there is a good chance Shatterstar will lose.

 

The thought  _ aches.  _ The pain is big, bigger than the body; Shatterstar is hurting, not the body.

 

The shadows cast through the stands by the Audience flicker, mix with the spots in the body’s vision. The room slants to the side and then the body is on the floor. 

 

Tastes blood in mouth, fingers moving to nose. Broken from the fall.

 

Body moves carefully, not standing, palms pressed to the ground.

 

Stops when ground is flat again.

 

Another ladder channel, body moved farther than thought.  

 

Body moved  _ without thought. _

 

Still moving, familiar feeling in mouth, heavy tastelessness given at feeding.

 

Container with one of the portions rests at body’s knees.

 

Feels whole to be eating, should be concerned, should not be here.

 

Easier to think, hands twitching, vision clears. 

 

This does not make sense, should not be here, should not be in the walls.

 

Body will not listen, will not stop.

 

Shatterstar pulls back, whining sound caught in throat.

 

“No,” nails dig into palms, “No, wrong, wrong.”

 

The swords are  _ gone.  _ Shatterstar makes a drawn out noise, long and pained. The body is not careful, must have dropped them. 

 

Shatterstar will track back the way traveled, will not think of what the body has done. It is easier to stand, easier to walk on the slanted ground. Shatterstar moves, humming. The blades must be found,  _ must be found. _

 

Path is marked by spots of blood, leading back to the first blade. The second blade is farther; easier to move with one held close. 

 

Body’s eyes are heavy, will not stay open. This is wrong. Same-wrong as food in walls. Should have thought better. Easily found, like it was placed.

 

Placed.

 

Guards know body is still in walls, saw it.

 

Placed.

 

Meant to be found.

 

World moving slow.

 

Eyes forced open.

 

Crowd-sound distorted.

 

Eyes fall shut.

 

Hands will not grip, blade-feel gone.

 

Eyes forced open, world smeared.

 

Chest aches, soft sounds like pleas in mouth.

 

On floor again.

 

Fades to black.

 

* * *

 

 

Body wakes to talking-sounds. Shatterstar cannot find words in sound, can barely open eyes. Can hear breathing, soft, growing closer. Wants to reach for swords but the body moves as if in slow motion.

 

“Couldn’t just leave it here,  _ no,  _ Mojo needs proof…”

 

Breathing is closer, presence of guard felt in body. Touch against side. Body moves too slowly, cannot land a blow with any force. Guard catches the body’s wrist; skipping, desperate noise between teeth.

 

“Fekt. Of course  _ I  _ have to deal with this.”

 

Guard holds wrist tight, other hand clawing to free it. Guard tightens grip; short, high pitched cries in the back of throat. 

 

Vision whites out as guard squeezes tighter. Crack of bone drowns out the body sounds.

 

Shatterstar lunges forward, smashing head against guard’s. Could knock an opponent out with that on a good day. Does nothing now.

 

Guard grabs body’s throat. Tight enough that breath buzzes within the body, but breathing is still  _ possible. _

 

Shatterstar purses lips, hum building between them. Blades are close, can feel them.

 

Energy crackles in air. Feels it across skin. 

 

This cannot be the end. This  _ will not  _ be the end.

 

Hum shifts to snarl, room filling with a flash of light that leaves after images in vision.

 

Guard lets go, falling backwards. May be cancelled, but Shatterstar must be sure. Reaches for swords with functional hand. It is not easy to grip, line of sight doubling and tripling.

 

Shatterstar misses with the first strike, blade embedded in the ground instead of flesh. Tries to pull it out without success. Stretches across the ground to the other sword.

 

Moves slower this time. Pushing it into flesh requires more effort than can be given. Drags sharp edge over guard’s neck instead. Does not stop until head is disconnected.

 

Shatterstar drops the blades. The body is in bad condition, slow moving, sight still fractured, wrist broken now. That hand will not move, radiating ache along the whole arm but the pain is muted. 

 

With the functional hand, Shatterstar prods at the wound. The bone is fragmented, jutting through the skin with blood dripping down arms. The body cries out, something soft and unwanted. Shatterstar will have to get all the shards out, but that means nothing if the body will not be able to heal.

 

The food from before was poisoned. The body is still trying to overcome the poison, moving sluggishly with eyes barely functional. That, in addition to the fractured arm, would be enough to burn out the healing factor. 

 

Shatterstar does not want it to end like this. There is no glory or honor or freedom in the body slowly destroying itself to try to fix what it cannot.

 

The body’s hands shake, movement making the broken wrist ache. Presses functional hand to the ground, braces against it to push the body up until standing. Shatterstar is still unsteady, room distorting in vision as head spins. It is not likely that the body will be able to walk, it is barely able to stand.

 

Shatterstar drops to knees with great care to not hit the broken wrist. It does not feel as if it is repairing. The whole body cycles between hot and cold, doing battle against the toxins. 

 

Shatterstar has been poisoned once before, part of a drawn out survival program. Spent most of the event sleeping somewhere high, somewhere safe. Only safe time to venture out was when others were sleeping. 

 

The body was too slow to hunt at any other time.

 

It is like this now, but there is nothing for Shatterstar to hunt.

 

The only thing in the walls that isn’t tainted is the body of the guard.

 

Shatterstar is already marked, guard-blood still under fingernails and smeared on clothes. The body will not last otherwise.

 

The body works carefully, undoing the bracer and shoulder-guard of one arm. It is not an easy task to maneuver with one hand, but it is possible to remove the armor. It is a terrible effort, weight greater than it physically should be when moving the armor.

 

Shatterstar pushes the sleeve up as high as is possible; the uniform is mostly unharmed and Shatterstar will need something else to wear eventually. The uniform already worn by the body is torn in multiple places.

 

The guard’s flesh is still warm to the touch. Nothing moves beneath it, there is no heartbeat to hear. It is empty.

 

Shatterstar is used to the guards being untouchable. This one is still, cancelled, blood smeared across the floor. Shatterstar lifts the arm up, letting it drop back to the ground. The body is smiling, lips pulled back, teeth bared.

 

Even in this state, Shatterstar is better than the guards. Fast enough, strong enough to cancel with only one hand. 

 

The body folds forward, vision blurring. Forehead presses to the coldness of the metal ground, breath aching within ribs. 

 

The body unwinds enough to move forward, leaning over the empty guard body. Shatterstar bites into the soft skin of the guard’s inner arm. Tastes of blood more than anything else. Shatterstar is used to biting others, used as a tactic when disarmed, but is unfamiliar with this action. It takes more force than expected to pull flesh from bone.

 

There is no new blood, spray across the face, just old blood smeared in effort.

 

Shatterstar pulls back when head and vision clear, soft sound catching in the back of the throat.

 

The taste of flesh coats the inside of the mouth, sticking to the roof of the mouth.

 

The body is marked inside and out, wiping tacky black from cheeks.

 

Already, Shatterstar can feel the hand repairing. It still hangs limp, almost useless, but it is not bleeding anymore. It is not possible to move the fingers yet, but the body does not ache anymore.

 

Shatterstar must move; the others will be looking for this guard. They already know where the body is, have found it once before. Shatterstar will not be that vulnerable again, will be more careful, will  not be found again.

 

It will be easier to plan in advance now that Shatterstar can form thoughts. Before, it was hard to think between the static. Now it is clear what must happen.

 

Shatterstar will take the guard’s uniform, stained but undamaged. The guard’s body is bigger than Shatterstar’s body but the current uniform is already damaged from the broadcast. It is not wise to change yet, first it would be best to clean the blood from the fabric.

 

Shatterstar does not like wearing bloody uniforms, does not like the way blood sticks on skin. A water source is known; Shatterstar will find it after resting, will wash the body and the uniform.

 

Now, the next step is to remove the uniform from the guard. It will not necessarily be easy with only one hand, but Shatterstar must attempt it. The uniform does not look the same as the body’s. The colors are darker, not meant to show any blood other than the black guard-blood.

 

The shirt is easy, simply a matter of undoing the front snaps. After that, Shatterstar pushes the guard onto stomach, pulling the arm still intact from the sleeve. It is a slow process with only one hand, broken wrist resting close to the body’s stomach.

 

It is harder to pull the other sleeve off, fabric smearing with half-coagulated blood. Harder yet is trying to remove the boots. The fingers of the functional hand try to work at the ties before Shatterstar draws the small knife, cutting them loose then pulling them from the guard’s feet.

 

The broken hand is repaired enough to grip, even if it brings much pain to do as such. Shatterstar works carefully to pull the rest of the uniform from the guard. Then, fingers work carefully to fold the uniform into something small, easier to carry. 

 

Shatterstar must move. Other guards will come to look for the fallen one and if the body is still close, it may be injured again. After the blades are tucked back into the belt, Shatterstar holds the uniform with the damaged arm. It is a soft action, an attempt to not make it hurt any more.

 

For the first time since leaving the Arena, Shatterstar feels steady.

 

The body does not falter while moving, vision is clear and functioning as normal, the only ache comes from the wrist. It will not last forever, but the priority is to get as far from the guard as possible and to sleep.

 

It is not easy to remember how far the body is from either of the ladder channels, but it is a given that one will be found if walking in either direction. Shatterstar steps over the guard, does not look down at the blood smeared beneath feet.

 

When the nearest ladder channel is reached, it becomes clear that climbing with only one hand will not be easy. The body moves with reluctance, functional hand reaching out for a rung before making the jump to the ladder. The body falters slightly, blood on the soles of shoes making feet slide against the metal of the rungs.

 

Shatterstar cries out, strange and half choked sound, tight ache in chest.

 

The body stays there, pressed tight against the ladder. Forehead rests against the coolness of the ladder. The body is shaking, heaving breaths without any goal. The heart beats quickly. Pulse in ears covers the machine-sound of the arena.

 

Shatterstar does not move until everything stills, dropping back to baseline. 

 

The body moves carefully, pausing with each step downwards to ensure stability.

 

Shatterstar does not want to go back down to the level with the water yet. The air at that level is too heavy, the body moves too sluggishly, for it to be safe to sleep there. The body stops at the level above it, watching the platform.

 

The body has completed the jump to the platforms many times, but now Shatterstar is uncertain. 

 

The first course of actions is to throw the new uniform onto the platform. The other hand is still injured, but now it can be used if needed. The body steps across, testing one foot against the solid ground before fully jumping across.

 

It would be ideal if the room from before could be found. It appeared to be isolated, had good vantage points. Shatterstar would like to find somewhere to return to.

 

Shatterstar sets to walking after picking up the new uniform. This is the level with the warm rooms, but it is not easy to remember how many the body passed through before finding the first sleeping place.

 

The body has already grown more used to the cyclical sounds of the arena. It will be easier to pick out noises that indicate potential threats. Now, Shatterstar will have to work on memorizing the layout as much as is possible.

 

It is best to be methodical. Shatterstar pauses at the first warm room, taking the smaller knife from the belt. Body braces against the wall as Shatterstar carves the star mark into the warm metal. 

 

Now it will be easy to tell where the body has been.

 

That is both good and bad. Shatterstar will be able to navigate with more ease, but it may also serve to track the body.

 

Shatterstar marks each of the rooms as they are encountered. This level seems to be above the majority of the machinery, but there are still many rooms filled with wires.

 

The body stops in an open space. It is not the same one from before, there are no footprints in dust, no sign that the body was ever there. It is close to the other one, two ways in and out but not much space for hostiles to hide in.

 

Shatterstar drops down into the room, looking it over. There is a space cut into the wall higher up.

 

The seams of the wall are uneven. If Shatterstar is careful, the body should be able to climb up to the platform and rest.

 

* * *

Maybe he shouldn’t be running into the middle of the fray, maybe it’s not the best idea to go to where the fighting’s probably the worst, but that’s not gonna stop him. Rictor doesn’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to self-endangerment. At first it was just because he didn’t care, but by now, it’s because he’s forgotten how to care about keeping himself safe.

 

He’s stupid and doesn’t think things through, but nobody’s paying enough attention to stop him. So, he heads for the stairs for the basement. That gives him more time to try to talk himself out of pulling some dumb shit than an elevator would.

 

He doesn’t run down the stairs. Now’s about the time where it feels okay to admit that he’s worried, but he’s not worried enough to roll up totally winded to a fight he’s already outmatched in.

 

By the time he’s two floors down, Ric can already hear voices. They aren’t distinct enough to make out any of what’s being said, but he knows Star’s voice inside and out. It’s not there, it’s not mixed in  with the others talking. That doesn’t mean anything good at all.

 

Ric isn’t half bad at strategy in a pinch; his mind runs through worse case scenarios a mile a minute. 

 

Star heals, but that might be part of his mutation. If someone takes out powers, he’s vulnerable and there could be permanent damage. Or something’s happened where he can’t talk; he could be unconscious or--

 

Nope. Not going there. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm almost done with the final chapter so i'm bumping the posting schedule up to every tuesday now!! it took me like. 3 months to write this thing, rip me


	7. first hunt

The body heals quickly this time, does not begin to stop functioning as quickly. It is a strange victory to know that the feeding amounts were wrong; the body does not ache in the same way it did after controlled feedings.

 

It takes one broadcast before the body first begins to decrease in functionality. It begins to move slower, not reacting as fast as Shatterstar needs it to. There is no telling when one of the guards may find the body again.

 

Ideally, Shatterstar would not allow the body to be broken again, but there is no telling if the body will be ready for an actual fight. Shatterstar has not had time nor opponents to ensure that combat is up to par.

 

Shatterstar is certain the guard’s body must have been found. There has never been any prolonged time spent around those that have been cancelled. It was strange to see how empty the guard’s eyes were, empty like Liskkyps 12.

 

Shatterstar does not want to cancel the guard a second time if it begins to move again. Before Liskkyps, moving when empty did not seem to be possible. Maybe that is why all the cancelled are burnt. It was not possible to burn the guard.

 

Shatterstar fears the meaning of eating the guard-flesh, but does not regret the action.

 

* * *

By the second broadcast, Shatterstar is becoming uneasy. No other guards have come after the body. Obviously the goal is to cancel the body. Shatterstar will not allow that, but it is unlikely the goal would be given up so quickly.

 

There are noises now, ones that do not align with the machine-sounds that Shatterstar has grown accustomed to. Moving erratically, not falling into any pattern or cycle. 

 

Shatterstar listens to them carefully, tucked back among wires to stay out of sight. They sound of footsteps, of heartbeats, but the source remains unseen. Shatterstar moves carefully, keeping strides silent and blades drawn. 

 

The guards are not quiet or careful, do not know how to track. If this is something in the walls, not just the fearfulness of Shatterstar, it is not the guards.

 

Shatterstar stays careful, continues to sleep up on the platform in the chosen room, stays away from places not touched by light. The only exception is made when Shatterstar climbs down to the level with the water. 

 

It is easy to use the small knife to widen the hole in the pipe. With more water, Shatterstar can drink with ease. It is hopefully not enough to be noticable, not enough to require repairs. Shatterstar leans under the water, letting it run down the body’s hair. It takes much time to dry, but Shatterstar would like to be free from the feeling of product crusting hair. It is not pleasant to braid with that feeling clinging to fingers.

 

The blood mixes with water, collecting under fingernails as the body’s hands work over the fabric. The stain does not wash out entirely, but the fabric does not hold the blood feel anymore. Shatterstar hangs the uniform parts over the pipe before working the blackness from beneath nails.

 

The higher levels are drier. Once the body’s hands are clean of the stains, Shatterstar heads for the next level up. Still, it is unwise to go to the stands, but the chosen room has places to hang the uniforms from.

 

On the third broadcast, Shatterstar changes into the new uniform. The old one is damaged, stiff with the body’s own blood. Shatterstar cuts the sleeves from it, shredding them to strips for tying the body’s hair.

 

The body is aching again now, unsteady and shaking when Shatterstar guides. Vision falters, marred by spots, if the body moves in ways that are not slow and careful. Shatterstar stays on the sleeping platform, back pressed against wall.

 

Light from a ventilation fan filters in as swathes of pale yellow, catching over the sleeping platform during certain periods of lights on. The light here is different than it is in the cells. It does not hurt the body’s eyes, is softer, feels weightless and warm against the skin.

 

Shatterstar braids the hair as the light plays on the body’s face. The two braids on either side of the body’s head are done first, those are the favorites. Shatterstar likes the closeness, likes how they rest against the body.

 

The body folds forward, arms bending back as fingers work at the rest of the hair. It is an action completed with eyes closed, focus directed to the feeling of hair against skin.

 

Shatterstar is unused to moments such as this. It is cut short by the body tensing.

 

The unknown noises have returned, loud even above the machine-sound of the walls. It is a strange noise, something sharp against metal. The body moves with great care, looking over the edge of the platform. Vision blurs slightly, but not enough that Shatterstar cannot make out black forms moving across the floor.

 

The creatures do not move like the guards. The movements are marginally closer to the body’s own, movements necessary only out of desperation, but the creatures move with an unfamiliarity that makes breath catch in the body’s throat.

 

Shatterstar cannot stop the body from making a choked noise, soft against the roof of the mouth.

 

The forms, weighted shadows, moving as if cast by light, stop at the sound. 

 

Shatterstar cannot find eyes among the darkness, but feels watched anyway.

 

There have been broadcasts in which performers are assigned to cancel creatures, ones which have never been like Shatterstar or the guards. The things on the floor do not look like any being that Shatterstar has fought.

 

The shadows on the floor are still as if waiting.

 

Shatterstar pulls back without sound, reaching for the blades. They are always close to the body, but now they feel much too far away. The body holds the swords tight, moving with great care to look back again.

 

The figures are closer, not tricks of the eye; they stay in sight even after the vision distortions are gone. They are not entirely still, swelling and falling as if breathing, as if flesh.

 

If they are flesh, Shatterstar should be able to cancel them.

 

It took time for the body to find the best footholds to climb up to the sleeping platform. With luck, the creatures will be trapped on the floor. Shatterstar is uncertain if they will grow disinterested and move on or if the body will be forced to fight its way from the chosen room.

 

When they are close together, they are indistinguishable as individuals. Maybe the things are no longer individual once they are in contact; Shatterstar does not wish to explore the matter.

 

One breaks off, stray clot of blackness.

 

It moves fast enough to blur, approaching the wall leading up to the platform. It crawls on all fours, each step causing clicks against the metal of the floor.

 

Breath is caught in the body’s throat, wrapped tight around neck like hands pressing down. The blades are shaking, the body is shaking.

 

The shadow steps onto the wall.

 

Claws no longer clicking, scraping across the surface.

 

Body aches, heartbeat erratic.

 

It has the dimensions of one made of flesh; smooth and sleek and shadowless.

 

There are teeth, forming somewhere from within the body-void.

 

Shatterstar is still unable to find the eyes.

 

The body slides back against the wall of the platform, not bothering for quiet or careful.

 

Creature looks up over the edge.

 

Eyeless and shining and watching the body.

 

Creature launches forward, caught by blades without thought, falls when halved.

 

Is bleeding; good sign.

 

Is not still.

 

Half with teeth shifts, swells as body stands, second set of legs pushing from body-void.

 

There are too many below, this one is already regenerating. 

 

Shatterstar is unused to situations in which fighting is not possible. The body is not at peak performance. It may not be able to run.

 

Shatterstar does not want to lose the chosen room or the sleeping platform, likes the light that reaches in during lights on. 

 

The halved creature charges again.

 

Body angles with guidance, catching it head on. It runs through the length of the blade, legs kicking aimlessly as head connects with hilt. Shatterstar does not move until it stops the action.

 

The others blend together as if one. 

 

Can they feel the stillness of the first one?

 

Did they feel it as it stopped reacting?

 

Shatterstar lets the creature slide from the blade. If the body is mobbed, the fight will not be in its favor.

 

It is best to react first, power hum rattling against teeth as the body grips the swords tighter. There is no point in deliberation; inaction has the same outcome as failure.

 

Shatterstar jumps into the nest, hum turned snarl, static dancing across skin.

 

The creatures do not scatter immediately. 

 

They throng around the body, flesh against flesh, foreign feeling. Power spikes and the nest splits. Those closest to the body are still, but Shatterstar knows that does not guarantee cancellation.

 

When the body regains composure, Shatterstar will ensure the beings are all cancelled. As of now, they do not move. The rest are gone, but it is likely they will return for the body.

 

Shatterstar does not know what they are, has never seen anything like them.

 

It was not possible to count how many were in the nest or if there are more nests within the walls. Shatterstar will have to be careful, will have to thin out the nests.

 

One is impaled by the blades, the others seem injured but continue to attempt to move. Shatterstar knows they regenerate, will have to cancel them before the creatures heal enough to attack the body. 

 

Shatterstar stands, letting body steady before pulling the blades from where they are embedded in the floor. At least one of the creatures has reformed, now charging for the body on crooked legs. Blades slice through it with ease, slowing it down. 

 

Shatterstar stabs through the head, hoping that is enough to stop the regeneration. The one nearest the sleeping platform climbs up the wall, one front limb missing. It bares teeth among the body-void, white on black bright. The creature lets out a horrible noise, worse than claws on metal. 

 

It rattles against the body’s teeth, inside of the bones, high pitched ache. Weaker hand drops blade, covering ear without thought. Louder than crowd-sound, sharper too. Must be alerting the guards as to where the body is.

 

Shatterstar drops the blade from the strongest hand. The body is not as calm without the blades close, but pulls the smaller knife from the belt anyway. Hand shakes as body throws the blade as hard as possible.

 

Death-cry cuts short as knife makes contact with the body. It makes a final sound, quieter as the creature’s body slides down the wall.

 

Shatterstar is certain more were in the room, but they are unseen now. The ones still in the space are cancelled now, that much is obvious.

 

The body’s ears are bleeding, creature cry ringing aftershocks still.

 

This room is no longer safe, is known, can be returned to. Shatterstar must find a way to block the creatures from re-entering. Must set up traps.

 

They bleed. They are flesh. Perhaps they can be eaten.

 

The body will not be able to fight if it is not fed.

 

Shatterstar pulls the small knife from the one newly cancelled before walking back to the one halved on the floor. Body drops to knees, feet tucked underneath. Hands pull the carcass closer. It is too big to fit entirely in the body’s lap.

 

The creature’s blood is still warm, but it does not hurt. Shatterstar was not sure if it would hurt. The creatures are wrong, are unfamiliar. It would make sense if the bodies did not work correctly.

 

The blackness of the body-void is only a shell. Now that they are still and unable to regenerate, Shatterstar can see reddish flesh underneath. The blood is red, as well, darker than most blood colors for models.

 

One hand works carefully to pull the creature’s shell back as the other works the small knife to cut it loose from the meat. Before now, Shatterstar has never eaten meat, has never earned the chance. 

 

From what can be gleaned of advertisements, meat is intended to be heated, cooked before eaten. Shatterstar frowns. That was not possible the night before; the night before was unexpected, something done out of desperation.

 

The next level down is much hotter, metal holding more heat than even the air. Shatterstar imagines it would be easy to place strips of the meat on the metal and let it cook. The advertisements running  on vidfeed made it look simple enough.

 

Shatterstar lets the cracked parts of exoskeleton drop to the ground, setting the carcass aside before moving for the next one. If it is cooked, the meat will last longer. The body will be able to eat when it is needed, will not have to wait for the next opportunity to eat.

 

After all the creatures in the room are skinned, Shatterstar sets to cutting the flesh into smaller rectangular strips. There is too much to successfully carry down to the other level all at once. Shatterstar grabs the remnants of the first uniform’s sleeves, ties the fabric tight once all the meat is placed within it.

 

The swords are tucked into the belt after the body stands. It is much easier to carry the bundle of fabric than just the meat with bare hands. On the level below, Shatterstar stays close to the ladder channel. The stronger hand carves the star mark into the walls.

 

It is both a marker for memory and a way to say that Shatterstar has been here.

 

Shatterstar moves farther into the level until a suitable place is found. The air is hot and even the metal of the ladder is enough to make the body’s hands sting, so it must be warm enough to cook the meat. The body stops at a place past the water pipe, one with a flat alcove elevated alcove cut into the wall.

 

Shatterstar unwraps the bundle of fabric and lays out the meat on the metal. It is unclear exactly how to tell when it is cooking. Shatterstar decides to watch it despite the fact the heat of the lower levels and the thickness of the air makes the body behave strangely.

 

It is unknown if the creatures will come back or if they know about this level, but Shatterstar does not want another confrontation so soon. Now that the body is still and the adrenaline has been spent, there are after effects. The body is dizzy and it looks as if one of the arms has been bitten by a creature.

 

The body is used to fighting off infection, but these things are  _ new.  _

 

The guard’s body must have been found. They must have been created to go after the body. Maybe the creatures were created to be able to cancel the body. Maybe they are faster than the healing factor.

 

The bite is not bleeding, but the flesh around it is red, branching into the green of veins beneath skin. The teeth are perfect points, needle-like cuts in a ring.

 

The body needs food to heal, but Shatterstar does not want to risk eating the creature-flesh raw. It may be toxic. Cooking is intended to sterilize, as far as Shatterstar can tell.

 

There has always been unwavering belief in the healing factor, but now that has come into question. The body twists, heartbeat rattling in ears. So much is unknown now. Survival is even less of a guarantee than when Shatterstar was being broadcasted.

 

The sound of claws on metal is distinct, but that does not stop the body from reacting at any noise. At least now the fearfulness is justified and serves to protect the body. The creatures made it into the chosen room without notice. Either Shatterstar has become careless, or the things can move without sound.

 

The body’s eyes are starting to fall shut when Shatterstar forces it into alertness. 

 

Unfamiliar clicking, almost machine-like but it is better to be careful. 

 

Shatterstar tucks the blades into the belt and climbs up onto the cooking platform.

 

Body stays still until the sound stops. There are many shadows on this level, constantly flickering from the fires within the Arena. It is impossible to tell which ones may be alive. 

 

The clicking picks up.

 

Shatterstar wraps fingers around the grate of the ceiling, pulling the body up until feet can brace against a support beam.

 

The clicking continues.

 

Shatterstar holds breath, unease burning in the body’s chest and stomach. Turns head slightly, looking down. 

 

The creatures are below the body, working back and forth the space as if circling, as if they know the body is close but do not know where it is.

 

The creatures do not have eyes, but it is unknown if they can still  _ see. _ Being above them should make it harder to be noticed.

 

Arms ache and the body’s breathing becomes choppy. Shatterstar must remain still. Still and quiet. The bite stings at the thought of the creatures. The first fight was not easy and even though the enemy is now better known, winning is not a guarantee. Shatterstar does not  _ flee,  _ but hiding can create an advantage.

 

Body’s eyes unfocus watching the grate above. Ever so often, Shatterstar glances over to the creatures below.

 

After two checks without sight of the creatures, Shatterstar drops down to the ground. It is not clear how long it has been, but the meat is cooked through.

 

* * *

The reality of the situation sets in. Rictor’s really just playing at heroism. It fucking stings, but it’s true. He’s gonna have to re-evaluate the situation if something’s happened to Star. It’s one thing to get involved in a fight if he knows someone’s got his back, but now he’ll have to be careful.

 

He’s not bad at hand to hand combat. He’s slipped a bit with training since his days on X-Force, but punching something for two hours three times a week helps work out some of the stupid fucking self hatred. He can protect himself, but when it really comes down to it, he can’t hold his own against a good majority of powers.

 

He’s stripped back to a little better than normal, but that doesn’t mean he gets to have a normal life. He used to joke that he wasn’t cut out for it, but these days, he’s just tired.

 

Rictor can’t let anyone know he’s here until he’s got something of a plan. He starts moving slower, trying to make his footsteps quieter. It’s not easy with steel toed boots, but those’ll come in handy if he ends up in combat. He’s pretty sure he broke someone’s shin with a solid kick before.

 

When he gets to the basement level, he stops. He can’t open the door, but he needs an idea of who’s in there and what they can do. Ric curses himself; he really should’ve asked the others about who might be going up against Star.

 

Step fucking one is know who you’re gonna fight because powersets change everything. He’s getting too used to relying on the others to cover his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll get back to y'all in comments soon! life has been hectic this past week!
> 
> i'm posting an hour early bc i'm tired and don't want to stay up to midnight, lol
> 
> not gonna lie, i love creature design and horror and i've been not-so-affectionately calling these guys 'mousers'. y'all are gonna get more worldbuilding on them in the chapters to come :O


	8. setting  creature traps

The sleeping space is empty save for the hollowed out shells from earlier. The creatures have not returned, are not waiting for the body. Working back to the sleeping space was not easy. The creatures are fast, but if Shatterstar moves too quickly, it will create noise. The trip was made through slow movements and many pauses to listen for sounds that do not belong.

 

After climbing up to the platform, the first thing Shatterstar does is eat. The meat is only one of many unknowns introduced in the past days. Either it will harm the body further, or it will help the body to heal and be ready for the next confrontation.

 

The strips of flesh are darker now, smaller too. Shatterstar bites into one, tearing at it with teeth. It is tough, makes eating more an effort than the servings for the performers. The taste does not linger like the guard-flesh did. It does not stick to the inside of the mouth.

 

The body eats three of the strips before Shatterstar stops it. The others must be saved. Seeking out the creatures is foolish even when in full functioning capability. They must be watched and learned from.

 

It is unknown when another encounter may occur and if it would even result in enough cancelled to provide meat.

 

The next course of action is setting traps around the sleeping spot. There is an entrance on either side of the space; each one is high enough that the body must climb up to get in and out. 

 

Shatterstar will need easy access to the exits, but also needs warning for if the creatures enter. They move far too quietly to not set up some kind of alarm. 

 

The remaining parts of the shells could work, could be strung up at the entrances. Shatterstar could still maneuver through them, even if the sound may draw the attention of the creatures.

 

Before that can happen, something must be found to tie up the shell fragments. Shatterstar still needs the fabric from the sleeves of the old uniform. The rest of it could be sacrificed, but this is the first time a uniform has been  _ kept.  _ The idea of completely destroying it creates a strange feeling of unease.

 

There are wires all along the Arena, but it does not seem wise to attempt to cut them. Shatterstar can hear the energy whining within when standing close to them, has seen others electrocuted during the Slaughter Games.

 

It is inevitable that Shatterstar must search for cord as well as anything else that could be useful. Perhaps the creatures sleep, but Shatterstar does not want to be moving after lights out. They seem to hide in shadows and while the body’s night vision is good, the damaged eye can barely be classed as functional in darkness.

 

The food helps, has not affected the body in any tangible way yet. Head and thoughts are clearer, body reacts faster. The bite has not changed, but healing takes time. The redness leaching into veins does not look as if it has spread, but the skin around it is hot.

 

It does not bleed, does not look as if it has bled. 

 

Shatterstar will watch it. Watch for changes.

 

The first time the arm was broken, Shatterstar felt a similar sense of suffocating, of thoughts choking the body’s breathing. Despite it healing wrong, it did not have a lasting effect on the body. Shatterstar learned from it, now knows how to set the body’s bones.

 

Either the bite will be a cancelling wound, or it will be preparation for next time.

 

Shatterstar keeps the swords close, heading out through the other side of the sleeping space. Though there isn’t the orange glow of the Arena fires, light seeps in between the panels of the wall and the shadows move in ways that are familiar. It should make it easier to identify the creatures.

 

Shatterstar has not spent much time exploring the rooms; most of the time has been spent running from one thing or another. Now that the spaces are being searched more methodically, Shatterstar finds many things abandoned.

 

This is not a place visited often, everything seems to suggest as much. 

 

Shatterstar finds cord after six rooms. Each one is still marked with the star mark; it would be helpful if more meaning could be conveyed through marks on the wall, but other symbols are not adequately known.

 

The strings of symbols on vidfeed were not seen for any long amount of time, nor were they tied to any understandable meaning. They are strange, maybe something only meaningful for those who are not broadcasted.

 

Shatterstar will need to differentiate between rooms. The sleeping space is distinct; the others are very similar but hold different things. It would also be helpful to track where the creatures have been found.

 

Shatterstar wraps the cord up before clipping it onto the belt. It is not known how long is left until lights out; the best course of action is to head back to the sleeping space and set up the alarms.

 

The sound should give warning if the creatures return, but eventually they must be dealt with. It is possible more will be created, but if the amount of creatures can be decreased, even for awhile, it will  let the body rest easier.

 

There were too many to count, too many blending together, ever shifting, but the shells are proof that the things were there and were cancelled.

 

The cord must be used with great care, there is not much of it and it is not easy to tie the shell fragments to it. Shatterstar uses the smaller knife to cut out notches in the shell, making it easier to loop the cord around it and pull it tight. Then, the cord is strung up along the entrances to the sleeping space.

 

The lowest fragments rest just barely against the metal at the bottom of the accessway. It is possible this will not work, but that is not something that can be accounted for yet. Feeling unprepared is uncomfortable, strange feeling crawling up the body’s skin.

 

Shatterstar runs fingers along the cord, letting the shell pieces knock together. The noise is strange, less metallic and artificial than most sounds that are familiar. It is a lower sound, still loud enough that it should wake the body. Shatterstar does not rest easily, always pulled close to wakefulness.

 

When lights out comes, the body reacts; teeth grinding against each other, shoulders rolled forward, hands curled around sword hilts. The alarms have not made any noise thus far, but that does not make it any easier to unwind.

 

Shatterstar will try to sleep, the body does not react kindly without sleep. It slows down and aches and makes it harder to think. It is crucial to stay prepared. 

 

From the sleeping platform, it is not possible to see the entire room. Shatterstar can still track movement with the night vision, but it will not be easy to pick out the movements of something solid black and shadow-like.

 

Shatterstar holds the swords, resting close to the body as it curls. It feels best when the body is leaning against the wall. There is a sense of definiteness and security. Nothing will be able to approach Shatterstar from such a vulnerable angle.

 

Sound may attract the creatures, but exceptions can be made. Shatterstar hums with the swords, body watching for any sign of movement.

 

* * *

Body wakes to the alarm sound. It is almost muffled by the machine-sounds of the Arena, but it is unexpected and the body reacts without thought. Shatterstar stays still, blades pressing into the soft flesh of arms. The alarm did not last long, slowly falling back to its default position as the noise stops.

 

That does not mean something has not entered the room. The creatures move very quietly, may have realized there is an alarm. If they can know, can understand, like the performers, the things will be able to notice the trap. 

 

Shatterstar was not expecting understanding. That will present a problem. 

 

For now, the priority is cancelling whatever have made it into the room.

 

The body is heavy with sleep, eyes barely staying open. Reaction time is less than ideal. The creatures do not fight with tact, the strategy seems to be numbers. Shatterstar is at a disadvantage in that case; the most group-work was done in groups of three performers and did not happen often. Shatterstar is not used to many opponents working in collaboration.

 

They are moving, that much is obvious from the sounds of the room. The body is vulnerable while sleeping; if the things knew where it was, it would have already been cancelled. Either they cannot see or they cannot see  _ well.  _

 

They did not react the first time until the body made a sound. If Shatterstar is still, is silent, maybe the creatures will not stay. They are quieted, still clicking as they move without purpose. 

 

Shatterstar does not like waiting, likes action and assurance of victory, but it is a game of lasting. Broadcasts are meant to move rapidly, to be engaging. Shatterstar is no longer one of the broadcasted, but is not yet living like those who are not broadcasted. Maybe it is a fault of creation; that life cannot be stolen in the same way as the body. 

 

These creatures were never created with the intent to be broadcasted, that is evident from their design. They have a purpose all their own and space to fulfill it without constant observation. It is more than Shatterstar can say.

 

The body curls tighter, small enough of a motion that it does not create sound. The blades dig deeper into the flesh of the arms. Shatterstar is better at identifying blood-feel, slow streams moving down the arms, than the pain of such small wounds.

 

The creatures stop, silence worse than unending clicking.

 

Cannot see. Can hear, can  _ smell. _

 

There is not much light from the vents near the ceiling of the space, but the body can still see somewhat, which gives an advantage. The creatures move as a nest. The sounds play off the walls, making estimating group size difficult. They scattered when surprised, scattered last time when Shatterstar jumped into the nest.

 

If the things have learned since that, the body will be torn apart.

 

Shatterstar lets the power hum build. The sound is deep enough in the chest that it can be felt internally, barely able to be heard over the creatures and machine sounds. It moves through the body’s bones as Shatterstar crawls to the edge of the sleeping space.

 

The creatures are looking up, distinguishable only as a mass of movement. They are darker than shadows.

 

They are waiting, or they are taunting.

 

Shatterstar drops down, feet hitting ground with an echo that rattles through the bones.

 

The creatures moved to not be hit by the body. Was the movement sensed?

 

This will tire the body, but it should make the creatures do  _ something. _

 

The power is not just light. The air around the body feels strange, charged, concentrated into the blades.

 

Shadows move as one, closing around the body.

 

Power hum shifts to a snarl, light crackling across the blades.

 

Energy burst makes the air pressure of the space drop, makes the body’s hair stand on end.

 

Creatures cry out, knife-sharp sound. Run, scraping against the metal of the floor. 

 

The body cannot see through the afterimages burnt into the line of sight from the power. 

 

Sound of hollowed shells hitting together. Some have passed through the accessways.

 

They are fleeing, have not learned from the first time Shatterstar did this.

 

The alarm-sound slows, impacts weakening as the swinging of the cord loses momentum. The presence of the remaining creatures is felt, not touching the body but near enough that senses bristle and muscles tense.

 

Shatterstar stays still. The cuts should be healed by now and if the body does not make any sound, the creatures should not realize it is here.

 

In between the lines of phantom-light sliced across vision, Shatterstar can see the things. They move, arcing around the body. Just enough light in the space to see the shine of glossy shells.

 

One breaks loose, slipping from the light into the shadowed place where the body stands. The swords still feel right in the body’s hands, but now they are much too heavy. Shatterstar has never used the power twice in so little time.

 

Stray shadow butts up against the body.

 

Shatterstar chokes any noise back, folded carefully against the inside of the throat, held tight in the chest.

 

It is curious, pawing at the body’s leg.

 

And then it stands.

 

Back legs unsteady, clawing at the body’s thigh, but it is standing.

 

Shatterstar punches the spiked gauntlet into its body-void. It whines, high frequency, teeth now visible and bared.

 

Shatterstar mimics the noise, screeching back before kicking what must be its stomach as hard as possible. It falls back, shell hitting against the wall.

 

Other creatures move around the wounded one, all turned towards Shatterstar as if in sync. The wounded one lies still against the wall, not recovering as quickly as those halved with the swords.

 

They regenerate, but they do not heal. It is easier to become new than to repair.

 

Body-void must be cut only on the surface, must not sever limbs.

 

Shatterstar slices out at the ones closest. Blades are sharp enough to cut through the shell with ease, but it takes careful movements to not cut too deep. The creature blood runs down the blade, dark enough to see against the metal.

 

They will bleed out if wounded in ways that do not allow regeneration.

 

A few more of the creatures flee. The forms are not distinct but Shatterstar sees the movement up and through the accessways.

 

One of the wounded charges but it is a slow action. Shatterstar brings the single blade down, slicing across the back of the shell. It hits the body, knocking it back into the wall before the thing collapses at the feet.

 

The floor is slick now and Shatterstar moves carefully, lunges at the last couple wounded with teeth bared. The creatures claw over each other trying to get to the accessway nearest.

 

The first wounded whines still, sound not as sharp as before. It is low and it is pathetic. Shatterstar stomps on the shell until it cracks.

 

The one almost halved does not whine. Legs kick out without purpose and Shatterstar watches until the movements stop.

 

By now, light is beginning to reach back into the room. It was a wasted night and now the body is more tired than before.

 

Shatterstar will have to rethink the traps.

 

The other creatures do not care for the wounded. It is another similarity, one which is strange and constricting. The things did not return for the wounded or try to prevent the body from wounding them further.

 

Shatterstar does not know if the smell of the creature-blood will deter the others, but it is worth trying anything. Takes a slicked piece of shell, cracked from the first wounded carcass, still warm against the hands. The shells of the alarm click together even when moved carefully to let the body pass through.

 

Shatterstar sits in the accessway, draws the star mark on the walls of the accessway with the thickening blood. Repeats the action in the other accessway.

 

Next, cuts the shells from the carcasses again. Shatterstar will leave the new meat to cook while trying to rebuild the traps. The alarms are functional, but there must be something done to weaken them before they have a chance to find the body.

 

It is not enough to have an alarm system alone. The body is weak, is tired from using the power without care. 

 

The body climbs down to the lower level. The creatures found the last cooking space, but if Shatterstar is careful, it should be possible to avoid them. Two more of the nest are canceled, now six total have been cancelled.

 

The nest did not look smaller, but the creatures are not easy to distinguish as individuals, especially in the darkness.

 

Shatterstar places the strips of flesh on the metal to cook before moving on. Something must be created to wound the creatures, to make them bleed without regenerating. The accessways drop off into the room, something could be placed to crack the shells.

 

This level has been explored less than any of the other levels, seems more mechanical. The next warm room has things left behind. Stacks of pipe covered in dust, almost orange either from the light or rust. They have not been touched in a long time.

 

Shatterstar’s blades are sharp enough to cut through most things, through bone, through Arena wall, through shell. Maybe, the pipes can be sharpened, can be placed angled for the accessways such that the creatures will be impaled.

 

They do not see, pipe traps do not make noise. It will be good. 

 

The creatures are smart; Shatterstar is smarter.

 

Shatterstar cannot carry both the pipe and the blades. 

 

The body aches, chest tight, at the thought of leaving the blades somewhere unknown. The closest place to familiar is the sleeping space. The walls leading to the space are marked, but Shatterstar must ensure the room is found again.

 

* * *

Ric needs to look in the room, but that’s not easy without being spotted. There’s a little window on the staircase door, kinda smudged and dirty and cross hatched by thin wires. He looks through it carefully. It’s not gonna help, but he still holds his breath while doing it.

 

It’s a terrible angle for seeing much of anything, but at least there’s a light on and it looks like people are moving around in the basement. There’s at least two of them, one tall woman and a shorter man off to the side. No sign of Star.

 

Fuck. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe he’s just barking up the wrong tree and Star’s somewhere else and definitely not in danger and he’s just gonna try to get himself killed for no reason.

 

That’s probably not the case. If Star was okay, he would’ve found Rictor by now. He always finds him, eventually. No matter how long it takes.

 

Now it’s Ric’s turn to do something, even if it’s stupid and might possibly get him killed and/or maimed.

 

Neither of the two in the room have any visible mutations, but they’ve gotta have something strong enough to take Star out for the count. Something to make him sleep or stop him from moving. He doesn’t go down easy and he sure as hell doesn’t stay down unless someone makes him. 

 

He’s way too stubborn to stay down  _ willingly,  _ it’s sure as hell not something he’d do if he was in his right mind.

 

The last time someone truly got the upper hand over Star was Cortex.

 

Fuck.

 

One of them’s gotta be a telepath.


	9. testing the traps

Too much noise will draw attention to the creatures, but Shatterstar needs a path. Lets the blades drop to sides, dragging across the ground. They leave behind impressions of the body’s route. At the entrance to the first new area, body stops. Listens for the creatures.

 

They do not come. May be waiting, may be smarter than expected.

 

Shatterstar moves to the next room, still dragging blade tips along. It whines, metal of the walkway creating sparks. The sound aches less than the creature’s death cries. It is not clear how far from the ladder channel the body has come, but the rooms are still marked.

 

The only indication of closeness is when Shatterstar passes through the cooking room. Stops to check on the meat before continuing up to the sleeping space.

 

Some strips are missing, picked clean from the flat panel of metal. 

 

Do the creatures eat each other? 

 

Shatterstar did not consider that they would have to feed. 

 

Of course the creatures feed, they are alive, have bled, are flesh. The things were created to find the body. Eating it would be a sufficient way to ensure cancellation. The thought makes the body’s hands feel numb, weighs hard against the chest.

 

Shatterstar kept the meat already cooked close to the body, tucked in one of the belt pouches. The rest is not yet cooked, cannot be moved yet. Even worse, the absence of some of the flesh means that the creatures are near.

 

They must be waiting. There is no other reason they would not be drawn by sound. They are injured, are waiting for an opening where victory will go to the creatures.

 

Shatterstar moves quickly, wants to be far from the place, does not want to find the creatures by chance. The ladder is close enough and the way to the cooking space is well known; there is no need to continue making the path.

 

With only the Arena sounds around, the body can listen for the creatures more carefully. Each step makes Shatterstar uneasy, boots clanging against the metal of the the walkways. The body is not used to moving quietly, will have to learn.

 

Shatterstar climbs, blades tucked into the belt. One will have to be left behind, one will be set in the sleeping space. Now that much time has been spent with the swords, Shatterstar does not want to part. 

 

The body ducks under the alarm cords, lifting them enough to not make sound. The sleeping space seems untouched. The blood on the accessways is not smeared. The creatures do not take things, nothing has been moved.

 

Shatterstar leaves the single bladed sword up on the sleeping platform.

 

Both swords could have been brought along but Shatterstar needs to be armed and also be able to carry the pipes. It would not be safe to keep both blades in the belt.

 

There is still the problem of climbing with the pipes. Shatterstar may be able to place some in the belt, or the body may be able to climb one handed. 

 

The blade rests on the sleeping platform; it is strange to not be able to feel its hum. The double bladed sword hums still, but it feels unbalanced to have nothing in the other hand. Shatterstar is unused to only being with one blade.

 

Still, the creatures do not take things, do not have hands to take things. They are not close to the body except in ways that feel wrong. They move like crawling, stand like they are trying to  _ be _ .

 

Shatterstar does not like the creatures. Feels a constricting tightness, muscles coiled, curled over as if wounded. It is not something ever experienced while thinking about any opponents from before.

 

The body climbs down, listless and uncomfortable, something bristling against the skin. Shatterstar draws the blade after jumping to the level.

 

The rest of the meat is still on the flat strip of metal when the cooking space is reached again. Then, the path begins. Body walks it carefully, knees bent, both hands wrapped around the hilt of the blade. Will be careful, will watch for the creatures.

 

All the muscles ache, pain radiating up the bones and into the joints as well. Using the power twice still feels foolish. Shatterstar will be more careful in the times to come. The pipe traps should help with being careful.

 

Body can hear the creatures moving, but they stay folded into shadow. Things chitter, clicking as they watch. Taunting. Another way they are close to the body, to Shatterstar.

 

They are not attacking; that is worse than when they are trying to cancel the body.

 

The bite on the body’s arm burns. Burns with chest, breath held tight until vision becomes spotted.

 

Shatterstar will not make the first move, will not give the things reason to lash out. Will get the pipes and leave. The creatures do not know what the pipes mean, will not try to stop the plan.

 

Shatterstar reaches the end of the path. The pipes are still in the room and the body finally lets go of breath. The higher levels are better, brighter, less shadows for creatures to hide in.

 

Body moves the blade to the weaker hand. Shatterstar is not used to wrist breaks; it does not feel as if it has healed correctly, but trying to fix the issue is more risky than it is worth. Even if it is not fully functional, the hand can still slash with the double blade. Precision is not needed when the intent is to deter.

 

Shatterstar has to set the blade down to pick up the pipes. It feels exposed to pick up the pipes with the weaker hand and hold them in the crook of the other arm. After taking as many as the body can hold, Shatterstar picks up the blade and heads back through the creature space.

 

The things are still clicking, now close enough to the light that Shatterstar can see the glossy shells.

 

Shatterstar has not taunted an opponent like this, but has done things close enough. The feeling of being watched, of being hunted, is worse than expected.

 

Forces the body to move slowly. Makes footsteps light against the metal walkway.

 

The sound of creature-clicks stop in the cooking space. They do not have eyes, but do not seem to like light. If Shatterstar could fill the sleeping space with light, perhaps they would stay away.

 

For now, time will be spent focusing on the pipe traps.

 

Shatterstar reaches the ladder. Tucks the double blade into the belt. The body should be able to jump to the ladder platform with only one hand, but it is not something the body wants to do.

 

Shifts the pipes to the weaker hand first. Now grabbing the ladder will be easier. It does not make sense to be so concerned about jumping, failure is as good as cancellation, but Shatterstar does not want to fall.

 

Body reaches out and swings across to the ladder. Feet catch carefully, grip tightens on the pipes. Climbing up with one hand is still not an easy task; when carrying something, Shatterstar cannot even brace the body’s weight against the other hand.

 

It is a tedious movement, climbing one rung before stopping to recover, but at least Shatterstar has never seen the creatures on the ladders or ladder channels.

 

Shatterstar does not risk jumping over while still holding the pipes. Braces body against the ladder and throws the pipes over with the weaker hand. It is not that far of a gap, but it does not seem smart to attempt to jump while holding anything.

 

The pipes clatter to the metal floor of the level and for a moment, the body freezes. Does not move, does not breathe, shaking enough to be felt.

 

The creatures do not come.

 

Body unfolds with the exhale and jumps across.

 

Shatterstar heads back to the sleeping space after collecting the pipes. The creature blood on the accessways is smeared. Shatterstar slips through the alarm cords, not bothering to stay quiet. There is no clicking in the room, no shadows left for creatures to hide in.

 

The absence of them is almost worse than the presence.

 

The single blade is still present, all thoughts directed to finding it. Body drops the double blade, grabs the single one. The blades feel the same, but Shatterstar wants this one close now.

 

The lights are still on, working in through the seams between wall panels. The vent at the top of the room still filters choppy patches of light on the walls. That light is gone before lights out happens in the Arena.

 

It must lead to what is outside. It is the only indicator of there being something else that has been encountered. The vent is too high to be reached and there does not seem to be any other access to  what is beyond the Arena.

 

There is still enough time for Shatterstar to work. Now that some days have been spent in this place, Shatterstar can tell how much light remains. When the vent light reaches below the sleeping space, there is not much time left.

 

Shatterstar sits, kneeling on the ground, pipe braced between knees. The pipe is hollow, but if it is cut at one angle, it should form a sharpened edge. 

 

The blades have cut through metal before, should cut through it again. Angles the single blade as best as can be managed. It is not an easy feat, to angle it correctly. The sword cuts through the metal with great effort, choppy strokes carved into the pipe.

 

The end of it comes off with a final slice, clattering to the floor. The blade cuts slightly into the metal of the room.

 

The pipe forms a point like a needle, only larger. The smaller blade is easier to control, but not strong enough to sharpen the point. Shatterstar works with the end of the sword-blade, carefully  smoothing it across the surface. Shavings of metal collect on the ground.

 

One is easy, but Shatterstar needs enough to deter the creatures. Will have to work faster, light level is dropping.

 

Works at the next pipe, faster this time. Jagged edges will help as long as they are sharp. Shatterstar can make more tomorrow, must make enough for the night. There are still more pipes below, but there are enough to cover both entrances in the pile near the body.

 

After working through the stack of pipes, Shatterstar finds that the sharpened ones must be set up. Light level is lower than is comfortable, but the body can still see well enough to act.

 

The creatures have not come yet.

 

Shatterstar needs to angle the pipe traps enough that the creatures will be impaled through the soft underside. Uses the tips of blades to cut into the floor. It is simple to shove the pipes through the weakened spots; Shatterstar tilts them until it looks as if anything incoming would fall on the spikes.

 

It is safe for tonight. Tomorrow presents the problem of getting out of the room.

 

Shatterstar climbs up to the sleeping platform with both swords. Sits with back to the wall, eats the last of the cooked meat from the belt pouch. The rest was left down below; hopefully the creatures have not taken all of it.

 

It is easier for the body to sleep knowing that there are better traps now. The creatures can climb walls, but they will not know about the spikes yet. Did not learn from Shatterstar’s two similar attacks. They do not anticipate like the other Arena Fighters.

 

* * *

Shatterstar wakes to screaming.

 

It sounds only as one, but the creatures all make the same noise.

 

Noise still hurts the body, even after being exposed to it more than once.

 

Body curls tighter, as if it will stop the high pitched wail.

 

No. No, creatures are drawn by sound. Shatterstar forces body to move, to slide down from the sleeping platform. It is not necessary to move quietly, footsteps are covered by the creature noises.

 

It does not seem like others are in the space. More may be drawn by the sound, but the creatures avoid the injured.

 

Eyes can see it kicking from where it is impaled on the pipes. The entrance nearest the sleeping platform has the best visibility after lights out. The screaming is strange, is not something opponents usually do. It looks as if it is still trying to run.

 

Shatterstar kneels in front of the creature, uses the smaller blade to pierce up under the soft underside of the thing. Hopes it is the head; without eyes it is hard to tell, but most things can be cancelled with a knife to the head.

 

The body goes slack; Shatterstar pulls the knife from flesh. The carcass covers most of the pipe traps. In order for them to be useful, the body must be removed.

 

Shatterstar grips the undersides of the shell. It is sharp against the body’s fingers but this seems to be the best way. It moves slowly, even with all of the body’s effort. The sound of blood on metal should not be louder than the Arena sounds but it is all Shatterstar can hear.

 

The creature comes loose, drops it next to the pipe traps. Lighter blood on the body’s hands, shell cuts on palms. It is a minor injury, but it hurts. Hurts more than expected.

 

Hands are one of the few parts of the body that are not often injured. It is not often that Shatterstar is without the swords, even rarer for the hands to not be wrapped to prevent breaks during combat.

 

There are few spots left that are not used to injury.

 

Body is shaking, cheeks flushed, teeth bared without thought, noiseless and still.

 

Would not have done this when still in the cells. 

 

Even when quiet, there is still the potential that others will notice.

 

Wipes at eyes, smearing face with blood. It is cool against skin, better than tears.

 

Will sleep longer. Exhaustion must be why the body is acting this way.

 

At least it is known that the pipe traps will work.

 

* * *

Shatterstar wakes again when the light has returned. No other creatures have entered during the night; the alarms-chimes stayed silent for the entire duration of the second sleep and nothing is impaled on the pipes.

 

The traps work. 

 

It is uncertain how long they will work, but they  _ work. _

 

Another one is canceled and Shatterstar is still  _ winning.  _ Has landed more hits on any of the creatures than the creatures have landed on the body. One bit the body, but that is the only injury.

 

The bite is healing, flesh no longer hot to the touch, puncture wounds scabbed over. Something about the bites makes the body repair slower. It is not something Shatterstar would like to experience again.

 

Rakes nails over the scabs without thought.

 

Shatterstar is the first Arena Fighter for which an entire species has been created specifically to cancel. Despite that, the creatures have not won. They were designed to catch the body and they have not.

 

By all standards, the body is defective. Should not be able to learn, to think, to act like it does. Maybe there are others like this, but none were ever obvious. Either good at hiding or cancelled.

 

But, these defects are why Shatterstar airs still.

 

Defects were always considered dangerous. Dangerous for the models, threat pointed like a blade, a reason for cancellation. Now, it seems as if defects are what  _ make  _ a model dangerous, seems as if defective models are cancelled out of  _ fear  _ instead of inability to function.

 

Shatterstar is still one of the best, now working at things none will ever see. Best at hiding, best at traps. The body is not being watched, is uncertain how that feels.

 

Body’s arm is bleeding, wound reopened by careless fingers.

 

The creature’s carcass is still on the ground. Something must be done with it, pipe traps must be added to; there is not time for being lost in thoughts.

 

Shatterstar works at cutting the flesh from the shell. It is easy now, almost a technique. Harder to remove than an opponent’s armor; the flesh is fused to the shell.

 

When the meat is all collected, Shatterstar heads from the room. The gaps between the pipes are known; the body can weave between them to climb up. Creatures do not have that advantage.

 

Shatterstar guides the body quietly, staying to places with light. The creatures must be sensitive to it, they seem to stay only in shadows. There is less light farther down, but Shatterstar still has the blades, can still fight if needed.

 

Now that the body is rested, victory is all the more likely.

 

At the cooking spot, only some of the meat from the day before remains. Shatterstar will have to be careful to not let the creatures take any more.

 

Places out the raw flesh after collecting the cooked. 

 

Shatterstar sits, leaning against the platform with blades at one side. The light from the insides of the Arena fills the small room. Takes one of the newer strips to eat. This batch is tougher, better to gnaw at with the back teeth.

 

There is a good amount of meat on each creature, but the body hungers more and more. If the things know to avoid the pipe traps, Shatterstar will have to hunt. That is not a concern as of now, but it may become one.

 

* * *

If there’s a telepath, they already know Ric’s there.

 

They’re humoring him or teasing him or playing with him and it’s enough to make his blood boil. But, he needs to keep a clear head and not charge in on impulse.

 

He does a quick mental inventory of his weapons: steel toed boots, brass knuckles, too much time spent standing at death’s door to worry about self preservation. 

 

It’s a very short list, but it’s got him this far.

 

Julio Richter takes a deep breath and swings open the door.

 

The room is silent when he steps in, even though he knows somebody’s seen him or heard him or read his thoughts. He’s never much liked telepaths. It always seems like they’re laughing at you, not that you’d ever hear it.

 

The door slams shut behind him, but even that isn’t enough to make anyone react.

 

“HEY!” He shouts; even if he’s depowered, at least someone could have the courtesy to kick his ass, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

 

The woman looks at him like he’s an afterthought. He probably is, he’s the weakest link.

 

She scowls and snaps her fingers.

 

Rictor’s braced for anything to happen; he’s seen people with their minds turned inside out, pain sensors shredded to shit, feeling like they’re burning alive. But there’s nothing.

 

“Go,” she sneers, pointing at him, “ _ Get him! _ ”


	10. stranger in the walls

**** Shatterstar does not know how many airing periods it has been since leaving the cells. The body has changed since leaving, since  _ escaping.  _ It is taller now, leaner. That marks the time better than the days, always running together.

 

After the traps were perfected, there was much time spent idle. It was nice to live without direction, but the body became restless. Eventually, most days were devoted to practicing old movements, carved into muscles better than memories.

 

Now, Shatterstar hopes the body must still be as fast as before. There are not many opponents within the Arena-walls. The blades are only used against creatures unlucky enough to cross Shatterstar’s path.

 

No others have come looking for the body.

 

There have been footsteps, not the sound of creature-claws on metal, but none have come near. The sleeping space has not been disturbed, only the lower levels. The sounds come from one two-legged, footprints left in dust that do not match the body’s.

 

Shatterstar has become better at hiding the star marks.

 

The body is restless often, almost hoping that there is something new hunting. It is foolish, but Shatterstar misses sparring. Does not miss the broadcasts.

 

It is good to not be watched, to not be groomed and examined and displayed.

 

There is something outside the walls, that is known, but Shatterstar has not left. The walls are known, what is within them is known. Shatterstar has almost been cancelled far too many times because of what is unknown.

 

The first creature bite took longer to heal than the standard, but did not scar. The flesh, the memory aches still, to remind. The body heals well, anything that remains must be a reminder.

 

No matter how many of the creatures are cancelled, there are always more, but Shatterstar knows how to keep them away. The things have not learned the trick of the pipe traps, have been trapped enough times that Shatterstar does not fear that they  _ will  _ learn.

 

* * *

Shatterstar is checking the traps, ensuring each creature is cancelled, when something on the level crashes.

 

There are not many noises that are not known within the walls. The creatures do not knock things over or drop things and the machines do not sound like something that has fallen.

 

It is something different, something dangerous.

 

The crash sounded close, but the body has not heard any footsteps in days. Usually it is easy enough to hide, but now, it is possible that the sleeping space will be found.

 

Shatterstar goes for the blades, holding them tight. They may be needed soon.

 

There is a strange pull towards the noise; even if it may be a threat, it is also an opportunity to test how far the body has atrophied. The body longs to be the hunter instead of hunted.

 

Against better judgement, Shatterstar climbs from the sleeping space, hair raising on the back of the neck.

 

The body’s hearing is better than the other model’s from Shatterstar’s season. It helps with relative awareness of opponents’ locations. Something is strange about the sound, perhaps warped by the Arena, but Shatterstar knows where it came from.

 

Body stalks between rooms, swords poised for combat, footsteps quiet and even. Whatever is here is even less careful than the guards.

 

Maybe Shatterstar will not cancel it; there seems little purpose outside of broadcasts and protecting the body. 

 

There is another standing in the next room, no attempts to be hidden. Wears a uniform not seen on performers or guards. It is not from the Audience, none from the Audience have ever been seen outside of the stands.

 

It talks fast, no parts of the language known, never heard from commentators.

 

Does not seem used to combat, carries body with many openings.

 

Shatterstar charges, snarling. Will not cut it yet.

 

Moves to block with arms without bracers, but Shatterstar makes impact with the body. Both fall back against the grating, blades knocked from hands. 

 

Shatterstar corrects, pinning the stranger with knee pressed against chest.

 

“Why here?” Body growls, “ _ Explain _ .”

 

“I am not… Not at liberty to discuss t-that,” stranger speaks standard, it would seem, looks flushed and flustered like first season performers.

 

“Will cut,” Shatterstar reaches for the sword closest, brings it to the stranger’s neck, “Take head off. Have done so before.”

 

“I’m from the Cadre…. The Cadre Alliance.”

 

That phrase holds meaning. Means attacks, means danger, means broadcasts interrupted.

 

Means the stranger is  _ from outside. _

 

Shatterstar presses down the blade, “Give designation.”

 

* * *

He can’t breathe and it’s one part panic attack, one part knee digging into his chest, one part getting the wind knocked out of him. He went down hard, bit right through his tongue if the taste of blood’s any indication. The knife to his throat sure doesn’t help.

 

Shatterstar’s bent over him, glaring down with glassy eyes and one set of swords extended.

 

“Give designation,” he repeats, accent thick in a way that Ric hasn’t heard since they were kids.

 

“It’s me,” he chokes out, voice thin, “Star, it’s me.”

 

Ric didn’t think it could get worse than Cortex. At least with Cortex, he was speaking in full sentences. It’s been a long time since he saw Star like this.

 

“Will cut,” Star warns, pressing the blade down enough to draw blood, “ _ Answer.” _

 

“It’s me,” Rictor pleads again, “It’s Ric, it’s--”

 

Star covers his mouth with his free hand; the other still holds the blades tight to his skin. His eyes are wild, even though they’re vacant. The lights are on but nobody’s home.

 

Ric could shove him off now, but that seems like a bad idea. Seems like a good way to get stabbed. So, he stays as still as possible. The condensation from his breath’s coating Star’s palm and he’s trying to calm down enough to maybe talk his way out of this situation.

 

The telepaths are definitely laughing at him, they know there’s nothing that’ll get him to hurt Star. He’d let Star gut him before he’d lay a finger on him.

 

Star’s got his head cocked to the side like he’s listening for something. The only thing Ric can hear is his pulse jackhammering in his ears.

 

Star jerks around to look over his shoulder, still hunched over Ric. His chest is heaving, lips parted, halfway pulled back to a snarl.

 

Star’s looking at something, something only he can see.

 

He looks around the room, eyes moving frantically while his head stays still. Star’s gaze stops somewhere and Ric tries to look back over his head without moving too much, but it’s not an easy feat. The hand’s pressed to Ric’s mouth with such force that he can feel Star’s nails digging into his skin.

 

It’s almost quiet enough to miss, but Star’s whimpering. It’s a kind of choppy sound, high pitched and erratic. Ric knows him inside and out, but he’s never heard this before. Then, it cuts short, punctuated by Star folding over. 

 

It’s close, conspiratorial, Star’s lips almost pressed to his ear. 

 

It’s a fucked up reflection of all he’s ever wanted.

 

“Called them,” Star hisses, breath hot against Ric’s skin.

 

* * *

“Too loud,” body whisper-speaks, forcing words through clenched teeth, “Follow sound.”

 

It would be a mercy to cancel the stranger, will not last long when acting without thought. The creatures do not often move during lights on, but have been drawn by the movements and sounds of the stranger just as Shatterstar.

 

Creatures know somewhat where the bodies are, know there is prey in this room. If Shatterstar is quiet, can keep the stranger quiet, the creatures should move on.

 

There are not many, but the ones near are circling.

 

Body pulls back slowly, needs to watch movement.

 

One seems smarter than its nestmates, edging closer to the bodies.

 

Shatterstar takes great care to cancel the ones that seem smarter. Too dangerous to allow to continue airing.

 

Could leave the stranger to the creatures, but it is too risky to move. Would involve turning back on the stranger.

 

Best to stay still. Other options will give an opening to the stranger, the creatures, or both.

 

Creatures do not hold interest for long, will move away when quiet long enough.

 

The stranger moves underneath Shatterstar, but does not make sound.

 

At least it has enough sense to follow orders.

 

One of the creatures breaks off from the circle, heading for the nearest accessway. If another leaves, the rest may follow. Creatures work as a nest, do not act as individuals.

 

Another follows, shadow fast. The body exhales. 

 

The remaining opponents are manageable.

 

The situation is not as bad as it could be; Shatterstar still has one sword, even if the other is too far to be retrieved without drawing attention or letting the stranger move. Shatterstar eases the blade from the stranger’s throat. It is of better use elsewhere. The stranger is already subdued.

 

The stranger could be an ally, but seems to lack battle-sense. May be as dangerous fighting with as fighting against.

 

The circle is breaking down. One stills to claw at the ground, looks as if it is listening.

 

The smart one paws at the body’s leg.

 

Body goes rigid, strangling a noise at the back of the throat.

 

Stranger stills as well. Shatterstar feels the other body’s pulse, breathing rapid against palm.

 

Creature stands, front claws slashing through uniform as well as body’s skin.

 

Body swings blade without thought.

 

Creature screams when cut. Loud enough that body pulls hand from stranger’s mouth to block the sound.

 

Arm is bleeding, wound stinging in a way that has grown unfamiliar.

 

* * *

Star’s shifted enough that Ric can finally take an actual breath. 

 

He’s looking to his side, snarling like he’s in pain, but at least his knee isn’t digging into Ric’s stomach anymore.

 

Ric catches his breath, ragged and grasping. 

 

It feels like the inside of his ribs have been scraped clean.

 

Even if Star wasn’t on top of him, there’s no guarantee he could do much of anything.

 

“What… What did they do to you?” His voice wavers, stumbling over the words.

 

Star doesn’t react to him, it doesn’t seem like he even knows Ric’s there. Star’s playing out something else and Ric just had the luck to get caught in the middle of it.

 

Rictor’s choking down the taste of bile when Star looks back at him.

 

He reaches up for Star. His hands are shaking the worst they’ve done since M-Day and it’s gotta be some kind of fucked up cosmic joke.

 

“Star…”

 

Ric’s fingers just barely brush against his cheeks, jittering too much to do much of anything. Star doesn’t have enough hair to tuck back behind his ears anymore, but Ric’s playing out the memory of the action.

 

“What happened?”

 

Star hits him hard in the stomach, knuckles knocking the wind out of Ric for the second time today.

 

He’s choking again, edges of his vision ringed with darkness. He probably shouldn’t’ve tried to touch Star, but fuck, he’s having a really bad day.

 

It clicks that something’s off when he tastes blood.

 

He bit his tongue earlier, but that’s all but stopped, so this is new and this is  _ bad. _

 

Ric cranes his neck, looking up as far as he can. It’s awkward and it’s uncomfortable, but he can see Star’s swords extended into his stomach.

 

“Oh fuck,” he rasps.

 

Star places a hand over his face, pushing him back until he’s lying against the concrete.

 

“Oh  _ fuck, _ ” Ric repeats, and Star shifts like he’s gonna pull the blades out, “ _ Oh fuck.” _

 

Pulling them out will just make it worse. There’s plenty of things in there that aren’t supposed to be stabbed. 

 

He’s crying, which is weird because he hasn’t cried in months.

 

Ric can’t actually see what Star’s doing and the hand over his face makes it even harder to inhale through the blood pooling in the back of his throat.

 

He’s reaching out aimlessly, trying to hold Star’s hand in place so he doesn’t pull out the fucking swords and make things worse. The blood, _ his blood _ , is hot, slick against his fingers, and he can’t quite keep a hold of Star.

 

It’s not easy to grip at all, like his hands have a life of their own. 

 

Ric’s vision whites out.

 

_ Please, please, I don’t want to die here. _

 

_ I don’t want to bleed out here. _

 

* * *

The stranger is bleeding. Bleeding from a wound caused by Shatterstar, but the blades are wrong.

 

Shatterstar  _ knows  _ the blades, Shatterstar  _ is  _ the blades.

 

These are the wrong blades.

 

They are silent and cold and  _ wrong. _

 

Cannot feel them, cannot feel the hum. 

 

They are cold and empty and the body holds breath tight to the chest. It is as if something important is missing.

 

Even the wound is wrong, created by an action that should not be possible.

 

Shatterstar is trying to make the body breath again, to let go of what is held and hurting. The edges of vision are going black; body is very distant.

 

Shatterstar is pulled back, body turning quickly at absence. The creatures are no longer clicking.

 

Scans the room with great care. All creatures gone, not hidden in shadow, not even bodies left behind

 

Also wrong. They are fast, but not that fast. The body tenses again, wants to curl inwards, wants everything to be right. Teeth are bared, not a threat but a cry.

 

Stranger is almost forgotten, until grabbing at the body’s hand, smearing blood across the uniform.

 

Is speaking, words felt against the hand pressed to face.

 

Soft, almost silent, but speaking.

 

Shatterstar knows the language now.

 

Another wrong; did not know the language before.

 

“Please,” stranger says, “ _ Please… _ ”

 

Shatterstar must move, must leave, must regroup. Too much is unfamiliar, cannot think, cannot understand. But, the body remains locked in place, unwilling to be guided.

 

The stranger’s hands are warm against the body’s own.

 

Body remembers how to move slowly, starting in fingertips, and Shatterstar slides the hand from stranger’s face. It is not often that Shatterstar feels lost, but it is as if everything has changed.

 

Stranger is speaking still, understanding cutting in and out with static. Few words are clear, are known, but they are soft. Soft only partly in the way that those near cancellation get. The other part is new; unfamiliar,  _ unexpected _ .

 

Stranger has not landed a hit on Shatterstar yet. Not even when the body was unguarded, unguided. This is not right. Nothing is right.

 

The body’s arm is not bleeding from the creature-claws. The uniform is not torn either. It does not make  _ sense _ ; very little does.

 

Shatterstar hums for the swords.

 

The swords do not hum back.

 

If they were not so silent, this would not be so hard.

 

Shatterstar keeps humming, looking for answers.

 

Is still humming when the stranger touches the body again.

 

Hands still warm, slick with blood, wet against own body’s face.

 

“Star?” 

 

The machine-sounds of the Arena have stopped.

 

* * *

There’s nothing he wants more than for Star to snap out of whatever the fuck this is so Ric can see  _ him  _ one last time.

 

His eyes are so, so empty, glazed over and frozen in place like someone paused him.

 

At least he hasn’t retracted the swords yet.

 

Rictor’s dying, probably.

 

His mind is bouncing all over the place, eyes barely able to focus on anything, and all he can think about is how big of a stain he’s gonna leave on the floor. Blood’s hard to get out of concrete. He remembered hearing that somewhere, probably on some crime show he was watching with--

 

“Star?” He tries again, voice cracking.

 

His hand slides down Star’s cheek, leaving behind smears of blood.

 

There’s no reaction, just the sustained monotone hum.

 

“Can,”

 

His head lists to the side, eyes lolling shut, almost too heavy to open again.

 

“Can you,”

 

He forces his eyes back open, but Star’s face is blurry, doubled up.

 

“Get us out?”

 

His head is spinning; it’s a miracle he’s still conscious. The stab wounds have pushed past pain into perfect, sublime numbness. The blood underneath him is wet, cold; what was terrifying just a while ago is now just annoying.

 

He’s getting tired and he can’t really feel his hands. He can’t feel if he’s still touching Star and Star hasn’t done anything to make it obvious that he understands.

 

They’re connected, but they’re both in a bad way. 

 

Who knows what could go wrong?

 

Julio Richter closes his eyes and thinks of Guadalajara.

 

And he isn’t dead. At least not yet.

 

He isn’t on the floor of the basement anymore.

 

There’s no cold seeping into his bones, no pool of blood underneath him.

 

Great. So his last ditch effort plan actually worked.

 

Now what?

 

He can feel sunlight on his skin, so they’re outside, and maybe he should’ve thought of somewhere useful.

 

Maybe he shouldn’t die just yet. The others might hurt Star if he’s dead. 

 

But the others aren’t here. 

 

They’re back at a warehouse in Arkansas.

 

They don’t even know where he is.

 

Ric can feel Star move, twisting in a way that sends new pain radiating through his whole body.

 

There’s a high whining sound, one that might be him, might be Star, and his eyes flick open.

 

He reaches for Star’s hand, the one with the swords extended, holding it tight.

 

“No, no, don’t pull it out,” his voice is raspy, breathing thin and thready, “Star, don’t move.”

 

Star’s looking at him, really looking at him. He’s far away, but he’s  _ there.  _ Which is better than five minutes ago.

 

“You got us here,” Ric chokes out, he doesn’t remember when he started crying, “Star, you got us here. Can you get us somewhere else?”

 

* * *

The body is seeing without seeing. Eyes are open but nothing registers. 

 

Cannot hear, either, ears ringing as if the body has been stunned.

 

It is vulnerable, and Shatterstar tries to pull it away only to be stopped, held in place.

 

Body is not holding the blades anymore; it cries out, high at the back of the throat.

 

The Arena smells different and Shatterstar cannot listen to hear if the sounds are right, but it seems unlikely that they are. Everything around the body is light and dark, open and compact, all at once.

 

Only constant is the stranger, still pinned beneath legs bearing the wrong uniform. 

 

Is no longer wearing armor, no longer wearing helmet. 

 

Is bleeding, darker red than any of the models.

 

Shifts, looking to the body’s eyes, fearful, furrowed. 

 

Knows what the blood, the wound means.

 

Still speaking, words unheard, red on teeth.

 

Pulls the body closer.

 

Stranger’s grip is weak, but Shatterstar folds and remembers.

 

Holds the memory close, will not let it get lost again.

 

_ Julio. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally the timelines are converging, in the worst way possible
> 
> the fucky thing about telepaths is that they can very definitely use memories to try to force people into actions they wouldn't otherwise take, and boy howdy would shatterstar have a lot of memories that could snap him back to a bad time
> 
> don't worry, y'all, it's all gonna work out okay. nobody is gonna die, it's all gonna be fine, i'm promising you that. things suck now but they won't suck forever.


	11. aftermath

“Welcome home,” Julio is laughing, is coughing, “Sorry about the mess.”

 

It is not a good joke.

 

Shatterstar remembers jokes now.

 

Frowns, cautions, “Cannot take blades out.”

 

“I know, I’ve been telling you that,” Julio’s voice is quiet.

 

“Cannot fix this,” body whines without thought.

 

Julio presses palms to body’s cheeks, skin cold and tacky. Bad sign, bad sign.

 

“I know, someone else can.”

 

Shatterstar reaches out with free hand, teeth bared, “Did not  _ want  _ this.”

 

“I know, I know,” Julio makes soft noises, leaning into Shatterstar’s hand, “Can you teleport?”

 

Shatterstar does not know, remembers only fragments. Remembers Julio and movies and jokes and soft touches without blood-feel on the body’s skin.

 

“You got us here,” Julio says, pleading, “I need help.”

 

Shatterstar covers one of Julio’s hands with body’s own and hums.

 

* * *

Julio takes them somewhere that sets the body on edge, but it must be safe. It is white and smooth and not the Arena, but it looks like the examination rooms. The lights are too bright and the building smells sharp and there are many moving around Shatterstar and Julio.

 

They are crying out and moving away and not  _ acting. _

 

“Stop,” Shatterstar growls out, rage caught in teeth.

 

The crowd stills, watching without sound; Julio’s eyes are rolled back, hint of white beneath half closed eyelids.

 

“Is  _ bleeding,”  _ Shatterstar’s words are strangled, like something is missing, “Needs  _ help _ .”

 

The silence is suffocating, drawn out for far too long. Someone pushes through the crowd, finally, and Shatterstar would gut them all for taking too long but Julio is so very still.

 

“What happened?” 

 

The helpful one stands at the edge of the crowd, dressed in a patterned uniform. Scrubs, Shatterstar thinks, unsure of where the term came from.

 

“Stabbed,” Shatterstar uncurls from Julio, gestures to the blades, extended and unfamiliar, “Cannot take them out.”

 

“Okay,” helpful one kneels nearby, close but out of range; gives off fear signals, thinks Shatterstar is the threat.

 

“Did not  _ want  _ to.”

 

The words are not coming together correctly, Shatterstar remembers speaking being easier.

 

The helpful one sighs, moves closer, “You can take them out now, we’ll make sure it’s okay.”

 

There is much to consider, but not much time. Julio trusts this place, brought them here. There is no other option. Shatterstar lets the blades retract, setting off a slow ooze of fresh blood.

 

Julio does not react.

 

Shatterstar can still feel the fragile rise and fall of Julio’s rib cage underneath the body, but Julio is not awake.

 

The helpful one lays hands gently against the body, presses soft on the shoulder, leans closer. Shatterstar snarls, pained sound cut off halfway through.

 

“Let us take him,” helpful one whisper-speaks, “We’ll take good care of him.”

 

“No, no,” Shatterstar folds over Julio, listening for breathing, for heart beats, off rhythm but present, “Must stay close.”

 

“We’ll bring him back, I promise.”

 

Julio is  _ dying. _

 

Body bites tongue hard enough to draw blood and rolls off of Julio.

 

* * *

Shatterstar does not remember getting to the small room, does not remember how much time has been spent within it. There is only one door, which sets teeth on edge, but there are windows along the wall.

 

Shatterstar sits in the chair with knees drawn to chest. The room smells of a thousand others’ fear and antiseptic.

 

Body flinches when the door opens and one unfamiliar walks in. Moves efficiently, sitting behind the desk in a way that looks practiced. Shatterstar is not practiced, does not remember things like this.

 

“Let’s start off easy, what’s your name?”

 

Shatterstar scans the newcomer with narrowed eyes, “Where is Julio?”

 

The newcomer purses lips, sighs, “Who is he?”

 

“ _ Julio, _ ” Shatterstar repeats, anger creeping into words.

 

“Does Julio have a last name?”

 

Shatterstar frowns, remembers two names being standard here, was lucky enough to have  _ one. _

 

“Unsure.”

 

The newcomer gives a strange look, then returns to standard expression, “Moving on, what is your relationship to him?”

 

“Julio is,” Shatterstar worries at lip; there is a word, but so much is clouded, gaps of static instead of knowing, “The important one.”

 

Hands trace over blood-feel on the cheeks, “Is kind, is soft, is most important.”

 

It must be a wrong answer; the asker looks displeased.

 

Speaks drawn out, “Are. You. A. Blood. Relative?”

 

Shatterstar shakes head. Julio is not one of the models, Julio does not move like one who was broadcasted.

 

“Who is his next of kin?”

 

Shatterstar rests head against knees, unused to questions without known answers. This one is asking only of things that are unimportant. Julio is somewhere in the building, but the location is unknown. Shatterstar would go looking if the body was not protesting from the double usage of the power.

 

“We’re getting  _ nowhere,”  _ the asker moves heavy, sound of footsteps filling the room.

 

“Then try something else.”

 

There is another now, and Shatterstar looks up to survey the newest one. Sounds like the helpful one from before, patterns matching the ones remembered.

 

Asks again, “Where is Julio?”

 

“He’s safe, we’re making sure everything’s okay.”

 

Shatterstar makes a displeased noise, pressed to the roof of the mouth.

 

“Can you tell us a bit about him?”

 

The helpful one is kinder than the first asker, but this has grown tedious, “Need him  _ back. _ ”

 

“We can see him when he’s out of surgery,” the voice is gentle, almost enough to trick Shatterstar into letting guard down, “Is that okay?”

 

It is acceptable; Shatterstar makes a sound of affirmation.

 

“How do you know him?”

 

Closes eyes, focuses on remembering. The Arena feels very close, still, but Shatterstar knows it is much farther away.

 

“We met… Long ago. He is the most important. Holds and forgives and understands.”

 

The helpful one pauses as if thinking, “Is he… Your boyfriend?”

 

Shatterstar nods, the word fills the gap of static, “My boyfriend.”

 

* * *

Somewhere along the way, Shatterstar is moved from the office to a waiting area. The light overhead buzzes and flickers in and out ever so slightly at set intervals.

 

No one will let Shatterstar into the surgery wing.

 

There are others in the waiting room, paired off or in small groups. Shatterstar is alone. The floor is very white, eyes trained on the little flecks of grey on the tile. It makes the fact that the others in the room are staring far less apparent.

 

There are three surveillance cameras in the space. Shatterstar is good at finding cameras. The amount seems unnecessary; there are no places to hide and all angles could be covered by one with a second to catch the blind spot.

 

Shatterstar sits with a straight back, tucked into the corner that is closest to being a blind spot.

 

There is nothing else to do but wait.

 

Shatterstar picks mindlessly at the blood dried under fingernails.

 

It is Julio’s; too red to be the body’s own blood, even when dried.

 

He has never hurt Shatterstar before, but the opposite is not true.

 

All of the blood will not come out from underneath the nails.

 

Shatterstar tucks hands under thighs; will not be able to see what remains.

 

Memory comes back slowly. 

 

Shatterstar counts three pairs of others coming and going from the waiting area.

 

There is a team, somewhere. One that will be looking for them.

 

Shatterstar remembers names before faces; Theresa, Monet, Jamie...

 

Julio will probably not be able to call Jamie Madrox. So it will fall to Shatterstar to make contact. Jamie Madrox is easily concerned, places much faith in the team structure.

 

Shatterstar stands. This is something to do other than wait, better than being stared at by strangers. No one stops Shatterstar from leaving, but the layout of the hospital is unknown. Telephones are commonplace here; it cannot be hard to find one.

 

After walking through identical hallways without success, Shatterstar approaches one of the workers, denoted by uniform.

 

“Looking for,” gestures to mimic the device, “Phone.”

 

The hospital worker points to one of the hallways, “Down the stairs at the end of the hallway and take the second right.”

 

Shatterstar makes a noise of acknowledgment and continues on. Runs fingers along the guardrail of the staircase. Stops after two offshoot hallways to try to remember left and right.

 

The first route is a wrong turn, no telephones to be found in the dead end hallway. Shatterstar turns back and goes down the other way. The telephones are close to the entrance and Shatterstar picks up the receiver at one of the empty booths.

 

It buzzes, monotone, as if waiting for Shatterstar to do something.

 

Shatterstar knows telephones and phone calls, but that information seems out of reach.

 

“Need some change?”

 

One ducks out from a nearby booth, not quite smiling but not quite frowning. Shatterstar is still holding the receiver, letting it whine.

 

“I’ve got a couple quarters.”

 

The other moves over to Shatterstar’s booth, feeding quarters into the payphone. The buzzing stops. Shatterstar steps up to the phone, staring down the number pad. The team members have personal numbers and the team has a professional one, but Shatterstar remembers none of them.

 

“Do you need help?” The other watches Shatterstar expectantly.

 

Shatterstar lets the phone drop, pressing hands against head. The hair is short now. That is… Different. There is much time missing between the Arena and now.

 

“Do not remember the numbers,” Shatterstar whines, “But it is important to call.”

 

“You’ve got…” the other frowns, looking up at Shatterstar, “Blood? On your face.”

 

“I do.”

 

“You wanna get cleaned up?”

 

Shatterstar thinks for a second, then nods.

 

The stranger is nice, takes Shatterstar’s hand to lead. It is easy to be led, does not require as much thought. They end up in a room with a sink. Shatterstar stands by, lets the other act.

 

“I’m Ava,” starts the sink running, steps back, “What about you?”

 

Julio shortened the name before, Shatterstar hums, “Star.”

 

“Well, Star,” Ava takes some paper towels, runs them under the water, “Nice to meet you.”

 

Shatterstar doesn’t respond, makes an uncomfortable noise instead. Ava stands up on toes, wipes the paper towel across the cheeks. The water is warm and Shatterstar is glad the blood-feel is gone.

 

“Why are you here?” Ava watches for a reaction, adds, “Of course, you don’t have to answer.”

 

“My boyfriend is,” Shatterstar pauses, “Upstairs. In surgery. Is hurt.”

 

Ava takes Shatterstar’s hands; fingers loose, looped around the wrists. The weaker wrist does not hurt, has not hurt in seasons. No. Years. Shatterstar measures in years now, has been doing so for a  very long time.

 

“We can go back upstairs and see if he’s out yet. Together.”

 

Shatterstar looks down; there is still blood under the nails.

 

“Julio will not want to see me.”

 

“Of course he will!” Ava smiles, speaks like it is certain, “He’s gonna want someone familiar! It sucks to just wake up to nurses and doctors, they’re all strangers.”

 

Shatterstar pulls away, folds arms up to chest, “I am why he is hurt.”

 

Someone took the blades, at the beginning. This is not a place for weapons and Shatterstar does not miss them. They are too quiet. 

 

Still, it is an exposed feeling to be unarmed, one that is not easy to accept without Julio.

 

If he does not want Shatterstar near, life will become much harder.

 

It is cruel that Shatterstar should be facing the possibility of sleeping alone after only just remembering nights spent close to another.

 

“I still think you should see him,” Ava says, voice drawing Shatterstar back.

 

People here do not act in ways that are always easy to anticipate. There are no scripts, no choreography. Perhaps Shatterstar is wrong.

 

“Let’s go. It’ll be fine.”

 

* * *

It is nice to have someone who is leading. The layout of the hospital is unknown and with another nearby, the hallways do not overlap with Arena-memories. Ava stays close, does not mind that Shatterstar does not speak often.

 

It is unlikely that the route they are taking is the most efficient route to reach the surgery wing. They have passed many places not seen during Shatterstar’s attempt to call Jamie Madrox. 

 

They have passed the gift shop three times. It is small and Ava says most things within it are overpriced. Shatterstar remembers owning things, most were given by Julio; now there is more than just the blades.

 

Shatterstar does not remember how the original blades were lost. Does not dwell on it.

 

It is easy to not dwell on things while moving.

 

Ava knows the hospital well, but does not say why. Shatterstar does not ask, and in turn, Ava does not ask how Julio was injured. It is a good arrangement.

 

Even so, Shatterstar is not certain they will make it back to the surgery wing.

 

Ava pauses by the cafeteria the second time it is encountered, waits for Shatterstar to follow in suit.

 

“When’s the last time you ate?”

 

It is unclear. Broad memories are easier than specific. Shatterstar remembers many breakfasts, none of which feel recent.

 

“We’re getting food.”

 

“I do not have…” Shatterstar shifts from foot to foot, searches for the word, “Wallet. Today has been… Not easy.”

 

“That’s okay,” Ava says.

 

Strangers do not often like Shatterstar. It is unclear when the line between stranger and acquaintance is crossed, but Shatterstar has not offered any reason to be trusted. Still, Shatterstar cannot place the last time anything was eaten.

 

The cafeteria is louder and more crowded than anywhere else in the hospital. There is space and there are windows and there are places to sit, but the memory of feedings is much too close. No one  else appears to be uneasy with the situation, but that means little and does not offer much comfort.

 

“What do you like?”

 

“I,” Shatterstar frowns, “I do not remember.”

 

Ava laughs, but it seems to be a friendly action, “I’ll get something good. A lot of the stuff here is bad, but I know all the tricks to get stuff that tastes okay. I’ll be right back, ‘kay?”

 

Shatterstar takes the table nearest to the door and closest to the wall. There are security cameras in the room, but it is not easy to locate the blind spot. Shatterstar is still looking when Ava returns with trays.

 

Ava talks while eating. Shatterstar folds over the table, wary out of memory.

 

“So,” Ava rests chin against hand, fork tucked between two fingers, “Tell me about your boyfriend.”

 

There are memories, out of place but all ones worth remembering. Julio has almost always been a constant.

 

Shatterstar hums thoughtfully, “He is good. He likes movies that make him laugh and how soil feels after rain. He says he loves me and I do not doubt it.”

 

There is more, maybe too much more to ever be said. Things that would not make sense to an outsider looking in, like how he helped Shatterstar to  _ be. _ It is not an easy or pleasant thing to explain.

 

Ava looks expectant, leaning in as if drawn by Shatterstar’s words.

 

“I am not always… easy, but he is still with me.”

 

* * *

After eating, Ava finally leads up to the surgery wing without detour. The original course was misleading, but Shatterstar does not fault the reasoning behind it. Thoughts are clearer after eating.

 

Perhaps Shatterstar has been avoiding Julio.

 

It is unclear how the reunion will go and Shatterstar does not like leaving things up to chance.

 

Ava finds out that Julio has been moved to another part of the hospital without prompting. Shatterstar will become unable to act if too much time is spent on considering potentialities, has already become frozen with thought once.

 

Right now, only two things are important: Julio is alive and Julio is in a recovery room.

 

The recovery rooms are labelled clearly, yet Ava remains to lead. People are inclined to fall into groups, at least on this world.

 

Ava only stops outside of the room where Julio is, half-step forward before backing up. The action speaks to reluctance.

 

“I think you need to do this alone…”

 

Shatterstar has had much practice with doing things alone.

 

It is still not easy to turn the door handle.

 

Through the gap between the frame and the door, it looks as if Julio is sleeping.

 

“You’ll do fine,” Ava says, “Don’t worry. I gotta go, but really, don’t worry.”

 

Shatterstar moves soft, stepping into the room, shutting the door without a sound. Julio being asleep is better than Julio being awake and angry or afraid.

 

It is a small room, not many hiding places and easy to scan. There are no security cameras in the room and finally, Shatterstar unwinds, lets shoulders drop. No one is watching.

 

There are chairs lined against the wall by the bed; Shatterstar sits in one and tries to forget that there is a window behind it.

 

There are many machines and wires, constant noises on cycle. They are good because they are helping Julio, and they must be tolerated. Still, they set Shatterstar’s teeth on edge.

 

Julio is breathing, steady and constant. Shatterstar counts the exhales between thoughts.

 

At three exhales, Shatterstar decides it is significant that Julio has never done anything to harm or to hurt Shatterstar.

 

At seventeen exhales, Shatterstar accepts that the opposite has not been true for a long time. Hurting Julio has never been done out of choice, but it has still happened. Sometimes, the body reacts  without thought. Sometimes, the body acts without Shatterstar’s control.

 

Twenty two exhales. This is not the first time control has been taken.

 

Shatterstar does not remember the last time it was taken, but the fragmented memories and the gaps of information feels the same.

 

Thirty four exhales. Julio is still breathing evenly, eyelids moving without opening. He is dreaming, looks far more relaxed than Shatterstar feels.

 

Shatterstar’s body is heavy. Muscles, tendons, bones, aching in half-remembered ways.

 

It would be simple to get into the bed with Julio. Even if it is small, Shatterstar remembers nights spent close, remembers how to fit into spaces only meant for one. Julio has always helped things make  _ sense. _

 

That is something Shatterstar needs now.

 

But, Julio is injured, wounded seriously enough to warrant all of this. Those without healing factors are delicate. Shatterstar has never had a wound last long enough for it to be worth forming a grudge over.

 

Julio may not recover entirely, may resent the wound, resent Shatterstar.

 

It is safer, probably, to not get near.

 

Shatterstar frowns. The count of exhales was lost somewhere among the train of thought. It seems pointless to restart. Counting will not fix any of this.

 

Shatterstar folds forward, head resting against knees, smudges on the tile mixing with the static distorting vision. It is not clear what  _ will  _ fix the situation. It would be easier to run, but Shatterstar cannot get anywhere without Julio.

 

“Star?”

 

The voice is slowed down, drawn out, but it is Julio’s.

 

Shatterstar stands, moves to the edge of the bed, no thought paid to Julio’s potential reactions. He is smiling, reaches for Shatterstar’s hands with eyes half-lidded.

 

“Missed you,” Julio mumbles, words soft.

 

“You were in surgery,” Shatterstar frowns, “I was not allowed in.”

 

Julio’s hands are moving, pulling Shatterstar closer. It is almost a desperate action and it is not expected. He still wants Shatterstar near.

 

“I tried to telephone Jamie Madrox,” Shatterstar does not know why he is crying, “But I did not remember the number. I could not remember.”

 

“That’s okay.”

 

Shatterstar leans over, surrendering to the attempts to pull him in. Julio’s hand is warm against his cheek and everything feels more correct.

 

“Please?” Julio asks; Shatterstar knows the full meaning without explanation.

 

He climbs into the hospital bed, fitting close to Julio. It is the team barracks all over again. The smallness of the bed is nice because it necessitates being close enough to touch. Julio is sleeping, or close to sleeping, head resting against Shatterstar.

 

Shatterstar works his fingers through Julio’s hair, humming to cover the sounds of the machines. This world has not always been easy, but it has always been better than anything he had considered possible.


End file.
